The Peridan Chronicles
by marmota-b
Summary: or, How a Certain Really Old Man Survived in a Different World. Although he did not come out of it unchanged... The Golden Age could not happen without some hard work. / Crossover; as close to canon as possible for Chronicles of Narnia, slightly AU for Highlander. Rated T for possible language and violence (language hopefully just hinted at, violence cannot be avoided at times.)
1. Chapter 1 - Lost

_I cannot explain how this combination came to be. It's an idea that formed in my head on its own, and once it got there, the only way to get it out was to write it. Once it got there, many little things began to make sense, even though it's so completely random..._

_This is a piece of fanfiction. Rather obviously, I own neither Narnia and all the characters and places therein, nor the Highlander universe. As one of three siblings, I only own several books of the Chronicles of Narnia, which I keep constantly checking to see if I got it right. As I cannot do the same with Highlander (I'm only checking online), I'm most probably taking some liberties, and call it an AU. I may occasionally steer into fanon territory in details; if I'm aware of that, I'll try to give credit where it is due._

_I will try and keep the author notes to minimum and make it all make sense on its own. But I cannot promise anything._

_I also cannot promise that this will be updated on any regular intervals. I know where it starts, and I know where it ends, but a lot of what happens in the middle is still unclear... I'm open to ideas, but bear in mind that this has a fixed end, and ideas that do not lead there (or do not fit into the narrative as a whole) will most probably be dismissed..._

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**In which a certain really old man becomes lost**

"You really are getting soft in your old age."

The words, muttered in solitude inside a medieval-style encampment tent, were incongruous with the young face they came out of. The man, dark-haired, dark-eyed, with a rather prominent nose that gave his face a vaguely classical outlook, was dressing up into a dark green velvet doublet, decorated with an embroidered coat of arms on the front and golden stitches at the hems. On a low bench next to him lay a sheathed sword emblazoned with an identical coat of arms on the cross guard: a unicorn and a gryphon; sided by two sprawling lions on the sword, standing on its own on the clothes, which were apparently fashioned after the sword. The clothes were new; the sword showed signs of use.

"Mag!" he cried out after a while of unsuccessful fumbling with the doublet.

A young woman dressed in a red houppelande entered the tent.

"Need help?" she asked, smirking in a friendly manner.

"Yes! How am I supposed to tie this on? It's so... tight."

"I hope not!" she said, worry flashing across her face. "You'd have to put on a lot more weight for it to be tight, I am sure."

"Well," he conceded, "not really tight, but look, you know me; I'm wearing oversized sweaters all the time."

"And trenches," she added. "Yes, I can see where you're coming from."

She started smoothing out the doublet on him and tying it at the places he could not reach himself. When she was finished, she stepped back to admire her work.

"Put on the belt and sword," she said.

He obliged her.

"You know, you look good in these clothes," she said. "The fit's good, if I say so myself; much better than your usual thrifted stuff."

"It's custom fit; of course it's good," he said and smiled at her, rather self-consciously.

"Come on, Adam," she said. "This is your big day; show some enthusiasm!"

"You make it sound like I'm the bride," he said. She burst out laughing.

"If you are, the father of the bride's a grizzled old man," she said. "A friend of yours is waiting outside, saying I should tell you it's Joe."

"Joe!" he cried out, panic entering his face and voice. "Oh, no."

"What's going on?" she frowned at him in surprise. "Not a friend?"

"No, no, definitely a friend, one of the best. It's just... He can be very snarky."

"That must be what he has in common with you, then," she said. "Relax. You're not this panicked normally."

"Normally, I am not about to be knighted," he said. "The idea of the sword laid next to my neck is freaking me out, if you really want to know."

She looked at him curiously.

"It's blunt," she said.

"It's still a sword," he shrugged. "Mag, I'm sorry if I'm freaking you out, too. I certainly do not want this to affect you badly in any way, but... I'm beginning to wonder why I agreed to this whole thing in the first place."

She rolled her eyes at him.

"Definitely the bride," she told him.

"Do not mock me, Mag," he said. "I do not want to break courtesy with you."

"Now, that's better," she grinned. "And remember, from now on it's Lady Marguerite de la Mer, and you are going to be Lord Peridan. I go tell your friend Joe you are ready."

She left the tent. He watched her go, still wondering why he had agreed to this. Why had he let his identity of Adam Daniels, student of history, draw him into the world of re-enacting and "creative anachronism"? Why had he let Mag, Margaret, Marguerite talk him into it?

On her part, it was the sword, he knew. She had dropped onto him one late evening, trying to drag him to some party, and seen the sword lying next to his bed. And being the re-enacting nerd she was, instead of getting a fit about a guy who had a naked (and sharp) sword lying next to his bed, she fell in love. Not with him, thankfully; she was in a very happy relationship with a fellow re-enactor (she did medieval, he did Civil War and the War of 1812, they accompanied each other to events – no one cared that none of these periods really applied to the Seacouver area). She fell in love with the sword and demonstrated terrifyingly detailed knowledge of its kind and use, even for a student of history. And talked him into joining her re-enacting group.

Which was the part Methos could not make head or tails of.

Being able to carry his sword in public again was a sweet pleasure for a man who had done so for about fifty centuries only to be stopped by modern age. He did not go into fights willingly, not these days; but a sword had always also been something of a status symbol, and as much as he liked to keep a low profile, he sometimes missed the more straightforward approach of his earlier days. So yes, that was a plus. The company was also a plus – they sure were nerds, and some of them were borderline crazy, but both could be applied to him as well, so he saw no harm in that. And Mag and her friends had really been stellar, helping him along, introducing him to people, finding second-hand costume parts for him; it culminated with Mag making these ceremonial clothes for him. They were very well made, he had to admit. He could not recall having worn anything quite so well-made in the Middle Ages; he had never had enough time to accumulate that sort of wealth back then.

But there were downsides to this new lifestyle, too. Like the visitors and vendors at the events. Some time ago, this group had decided to go public, and he unfortunately only got in after the decision had been made. There was now a Ren Faire quality to the events, the fact that what was meant to be a diverting manner of hands-on education (or at least that was the vague idea he got) was somehow withering into an amusement park sort of entertainment at the edges.

And there was the matter of chivalry. It all revolved around chivalry. He did not have that much of a problem setting into the habits at first, because all the ladies in the group were nice, fun to be around and clever and the gentlemen were very much the same; but he found it hard to keep his knightly demeanour about some of the visitors. Besides, he had never been such a huge fan of chivalry to begin with. He was much more comfortable with the modern practice (though not entirely the idea) of equality. It provided him an easier approach to life that unified and surpassed all the incongruous approaches of the past, his past. He thought chivalry to be way too limiting in that respect.

And as well-made and, admittedly, comfortable his new clothes were, he felt very self-conscious in them. The coat of arms that came from his sword really had nothing to do with him. The sword was a modern creation, a design by a Spanish manufacturer; he had made it decades ago as a functional prototype for them and then kept it as his fighting sword. It was, in a way, one of a kind, sturdier and much better weighted than those that followed it in production, truly made for fight instead of display; but it was a modern sword nonetheless, a romantic vision. The coat of arms was purely arbitrary. So was the name the re-enactors gave him, derived in some mysterious way from his surname – why did everyone have to have a different name here anyway? Methos was used to switching identities, but this was crazy, bordering on schizophrenic, even for him. Why should Adam Daniels suddenly become Lord Peridan for a day or two? And it was not quite like acting either. They meant it.

What particularly made him feel self-conscious about his doublet was the fact that he could not conceal a dagger in it. Not without Mag knowing, anyway, and as cool as she had been about his sword, this was something he did not want her to know.

The fact that Joe and MacLeod enjoyed this turn of events in his life immensely and came to every event he had been to so far did not help matters very much.

Nor did that affair of knighting he was facing now. There were very few people he trusted with a sword at his neck. Only one, really, and it was not the "king" of the Seacouver area, nice chap that he was.

Oh well. Better face it now. He should not keep Joe and Mag waiting. No matter that he wished for the ground to open and swallow him up (but not permanently, thank you very much); he could not let his friends down, now that he did have friends.

And so he drew aside the flap of his tent and stepped out.

Into a forest.

At first he just stared. Then he blinked. Then he stared some more.

Then he turned around to go back inside, only to find out the tent was gone. He was not very surprised now to see that he was surrounded by forest.

Almost. He saw that where the tent's central pole had been, an old-fashioned, 19th century gas streetlamp was standing now.

That was when he swore. He swore heavily and for a very long time. He went from Sumerian, through a number of other ancient Middle East languages, ancient Greek (three dialects mixed indiscriminately), Etruscan, Vulgar Latin, medieval French, Old English and medieval Lithuanian to the modern English he had been using most recently, and he threw some Navajo, Finnish, and Slovak into the mix for a good measure.

The streetlamp was still standing there, blinking serenely at him in the middle of a forest, in full daylight.

He swore in Gaelic, thinking fondly of the Highlander and wondering whether he'd ever see him again. That took the edge off his oath, but it still sounded good; Gaelic was an expressive language.

So were the others, which was why he had used them in the first place after all. He felt slightly better for having expressed himself.

The classic rule of thumb for the situations when you got lost in a forest was to find a body of water, preferably running water which you could follow into populated places. There were bound to be some sooner or later somewhere near water; what he was worried about were the cases when it was later. He had no idea where he was or how he had got there. After what Mac had told him about his brush with alternate realities, Methos suspected he could be absolutely anywhere. Or any time.

It took him almost an hour before he found a stream, and after that hour Mag's beautiful doublet was a bit worse for wear, smudged and scratched by low-hanging branches. Still, getting lost in a forest was not half as bad as getting lost in a desert. Dehydration and heatstroke counted among the less pleasant causes of death. But then, so did death by wild animals, did it not?

Death by sword and arrow and bullet was far more preferable - in terms of expediency -, unless the sword cut off your head.

Because that was definitely a sound of hoofs he was hearing now from the wood he had come from, above the stream. It did not sound like running deer. And those were definitely shouts. Shouts in English. At least he spoke the language and could explain himself – if only he knew the explanation.

"He went here!"

"Follow!"

That, admittedly, did not sound very reassuring.

He briefly considered running away, but one thing he had learned very well during his time as a Horseman – one of the things he had learned back then and found fates or Providence or God pursuing him with later on - was that pedestrians did not stand a chance in a race with horses.

Or, as the case may be, centaurs.

When the creature emerged from the forest he bit his lower lip, in a move substituting the pinching of the back of his hand. He did not dare pinch the back of his hand: the centaur was aiming an arrow at him. He did not have to say "don't move." That was self-explanatory.

They stared at each other for a while and each seemed surprised and confused by the other's appearance.

Okay, Methos, so this is an alternate reality with centaurs. Which means it can quite possibly also be an alternate reality with unicorns and gryphons – mighty handy for you to carry them around on your chest, is it not? - Calm down. Observe and record. - The centaur had a chestnut horse's body, and his face was graced by a matching copper-coloured beard; he possessed a wild yet classic sort of beauty. But the thing Methos was really transfixed by was the bow and arrow. Centaurs were bad enough, but centaurs aiming at him really pushed it, and made calming down just a bit more difficult.

This is the point where explanations are in line. First rule of thumb in such situations: lie as little as possible. Lies are easy to catch; half truths less so. The complete and utter truth will probably not serve you well here, though. He's going to ask you who you are. The complete and utter truth rarely works. You're Adam Daniels, student of history.

"Who are you, son of Adam?" the centaur asked.

Oh, dash it. So much for the name Adam.

"My name is Peridan," he said, clutching to the chronologically nearest of his names that did not involve Adam. So Lord Peridan it is; how would a Lord Peridan behave in such a situation?

More people appeared, streaming out of the forest to the clearing at the brook. He noticed, with relief, that some of them were humans on horses. The others crushed that relief almost immediately, though. There were two more centaurs; two fauns and five dwarfs on ponies. And animals other than the horses, seemingly larger-than-life, walking on hind legs and carrying bows and crossbows just like everyone else in the group. Three bears. Two leopards. What appeared to be a beaver. _Beaver?!_

"I mean no harm," Methos said. "I became lost."

"So it appears," the centaur said and lowered the arrow. Not enough for Methos' comfort; now it was just aimed at his bowels instead of his chest. Still, it was a move suggesting more trust on the centaur's side, and he appreciated that. "What are you doing here in Narnia? I have not seen you before. Sons of Adam still count low in our land."

Methos shrugged. Again, a half truth. Neither "I don't know," nor "What do you think it looks like? I'm just trying to find my way out of these gorram woods!" did seem like a good idea. Whatever and wherever Narnia was, this seemed to be a company that would not appreciate that sort of language. He was Peridan; so he'd stick to Peridan's story.

"I was on my way to the king," he said, thinking frantically how to go on. But he did not have to. One of the riders came forth – a dark-haired boy of about twelve years of age.

"Then you are not lost after all, Peridan, for you have found me," he said. "I am King Edmund."

* * *

_Houppelande: a medieval coat-dress (actually worn by both men and women). It ate quite a lot of fabric, so it was obviously worn by people of higher status._

_Oh, and apparently by the sixth season of Highlander, neither Duncan nor Joe is living in Seacouver anymore. Enter the AU. I like the Seacouver setting too much to let go of it; even though it does not play a large role in this story, it kind of explains the whole re-enacting weird-out Methos is experiencing, and that does play a role._

_I do not speak French, so kindly let me know if Lady Marguerite's name is wrong. It would not have the same ring to it if there were no "de"..._

_Also: my headcanon Edmund is dark-haired, which has nothing to do with the films and everything with the illustrations of the first Czech edition; unlike Pauline Baynes, Renáta Fučíková got the girls' hair-colours right (and Caspian's wrong)._

_See what I meant about too many author notes?_


	2. Chapter 2 - The King

_Thank you so much for __the review, the __follows__ and __the favourites__ I got for the first chapter; I hope you'll keep enjoying this…_

_This time, I'm using the FF dividers in the story. There actually originally were some dividers in the first chapter as well, but FF apparently does not accept any sorts of funny characters used as dividers. It's all Methos' point of view in the first chapter, so their lack does not matter, but from now on the points of view will alternate between his and other characters', so I want to keep it clear. I'm not happy about using the FF dividers, because I'm using those to divide my notes from the text itself, but oh well. Let's see if this format works.  
_

* * *

**Chapter 2**

**In which our hero meets the king**

Edmund eyed the man in front of him curiously. Was he one of the old Narnian nobles that they had invited into Narnia? Well, old was not fit to apply here (but then, nor did it apply to most of the people who had come). He seemed barely three years Peter's senior. He bore himself with dignity that suggested noble birth, as far as Edmund could tell (this matter of nobility and royalty and what not was still rather confusing in a country where no humans had lived until very recently – and more so for someone who was only just learning how to treat his own royalty). But something about the man suggested humble background as well. The doublet he was wearing was very well-made and quite rich, his sword seemed to be a beautiful and quality piece of work and the smaller dagger or knife at his other side, though simpler in execution, was no doubt also a prized possession for its bearer. But the fact that he was wearing no cloak or luggage, in spite of travelling, together with the nearly worn-out state of his boots spoke of very limited means.

It was really the man's face Edmund's gaze was drawn to. It was rather reminiscent of something he recalled from his previous life, in the other world. A marble bust he had seen in a large country house. Somebody revered for his mind. As he was considering the man, he could, in turn, see the man considering him. It was slightly unnerving, but when all was said and done, he could not but respect the stranger.

"My life is in your hands, Your Majesty," the man called Peridan finally said. "I am a foreigner to Narnia. I can only assure you I mean no harm to its people, unless they mean harm to me, and that I hope to be welcomed to it in peace, as I am willing to settle into it in peace. But all I can offer you is the service of my sword."

Edmund liked that speech a lot. Together with his siblings, he had listened to many applications for a place in the renewed Narnia – accepted most of them, too – but this man's speech featured a rare combination of blunt straightforwardness and intelligence. The simple, unadorned words spoke volumes of hope and determination.

"You can also offer me the service of your mind," Edmund said. "I am beginning to believe it is just as worthy as your sword, if not more. I would say more."

Peridan smiled then and Edmund was sold on him before he knew it.

"I value my sword highly," Peridan said, drawing said sword from its scabbard. "But I value my mind more." He offered the sword to Edmund, hilt first. Edmund took it. It was indeed a beautiful weapon, with a smooth and clearly very sharp (and regularly sharpened) blade of steel; a single-handed grip woven with a golden cloth, already worn through at some places. The hilt was gilded, a single green jewel in the pommel; the guard was engraved with a crest identical to the one on Peridan's doublet. There was a unicorn and a gryphon on the coat of arms. It was for the first time in two years that Edmund found himself truly thankful for the heraldic studies forced on him by his centaur tutor. Both of these heraldic creatures signified strength, power; but the unicorn also suggested purity and virtue and the gryphon spoke of intelligence and vigilance. And as he looked at the lions guarding the coat of arms on the sword, he decided to consider the crest a sign.

* * *

He blamed the re-enacting society. He definitely wanted to settle into Narnia in peace, at least until he could find out how to get back. But had he had to offer his services to King Edmund so immediately, then? Had he not mentioned the king – a completely different king, but they had no way of knowing – he could have gotten out of this without committing himself. It was a hazard; an offer almost as dangerous as his offer to Mac after his fight with Kalas, the offer of his head, had been. Back then, he had not expected to live through it; yet he had. So maybe yes, maybe sometimes he had to hang all his hopes and fears on the wind. Clutch to the irrational, do what his survival instinct screamed at him not to do.

It seemed to have worked out in his favour so far. Right, so this was a hunting party, comprised mostly of scary individuals: as a first impression of Narnia, that did not fare very well for him; but there was the matter of the beaver. And he was beginning to really like this boy king, although he had also felt panicked about him at first. A boy king seemed like the last thing he needed on his plate, whether he was Methos, Adam Daniels or, dash it, Lord Peridan. But he was beginning to like the boy, he was beginning to like the king, and he was beginning to like his identity of Peridan as well. The boy was smart, not just well-spoken but truly smart. The king was gracious. And Peridan seemed to be working really well off that. He was clearly a very young knight, still searching for his place in the world (that worked well for Methos in present situation, too), but already formed in other ways. Of course he would have some of Methos' characteristics; most, probably.

The boy – king – Edmund – was looking at his sword curiously for a while. Then he returned it to him.

"Take back your sword; I will only retain its service," he said. "Or at least I wish to; whether you can stay in Narnia does not depend just on me, but has to be decided by my brother the High King and my two sisters as well."

Oh, and here I thought I'd won already, Methos thought. Wait a minute, so there is a High King and two sisters – two more queens probably? Now _that_ is weird.

But he realised he could not let his surprise show – they clearly considered him to be someone from their world who knew whom he was talking to. Mag's clothes must have helped in that respect – he could see the people were wearing very similar medieval-style clothes, so he fit right in. Unfortunately, their assumption also landed him on the edge of a deep pit, _having_ to behave like someone out of their world. A world he knew absolutely nothing about.

Oh well. He had always been good at adapting. He had been a Watcher for over ten years. He could do this.

* * *

Peridan seemed a bit crestfallen when Edmund mentioned his siblings; but he accepted it in a stride, without further comment.

That was another reason why Edmund found himself liking the man. Most humans he had met in this world so far seemed completely flabbergasted by the relations between the four monarchs – namely, the fact that the queens were the kings' equals, the fact that they all ruled together. Edmund had come to understand that in the neighbouring countries, women were usually not viewed as fit to rule. If, occasionally, a woman acquired power, she had to prove herself even stronger than a man would have to be (maybe that was part of why the Witch had been so cruel, although he was fairly sure it had been ingrained in her nature). The two young queens of Narnia were neither their brothers' inferiors, nor did they have to prove themselves in any special way. Most people could not refrain from commenting upon it – by politely wondering or by a slip of tongue (the two least courteous about it were among the few refused applicants). Peridan did neither. He was probably wondering as well, but he kept quiet. Good. The man was wise.

"Let us go back to Cair Paravel," Edmund said. "Peridan's case should be decided as soon as possible. Lord Garvan, please, give him your spare horse."

Garvan, an older noble that had come from Archenland, obliged; but as he pressed the mare's reins into the young man's hand, he could not help himself and shot a remark at Peridan:

"I hope you can ride a horse, boy; you look like you did not have much chance of practice in your life."

Garvan came from a large estate with many horses. He was a younger son, which was why he had found it easier to leave his home and move to his ancestral lands in Narnia with his own family. But he still retained a strong connection to his old home, unfortunately including the tendency to look down his nose on people with littler means than his family had.

Peridan still did not say anything; he only shot Garvan a particularly nasty look (one of those the words "if looks could kill" are usually used in connection to) and swung into the horse's saddle in a swift, efficient and quite elegant move.

"That's a start," Garvan said, unperturbed.

Edmund could not blame Peridan for the nasty look; being called "boy" by Garvan must have had something to with it. Peridan was young, but by all rights, he sure was already a man. And something about the way he mounted the horse and sat in the saddle suggested to Edmund that he may know more about horses and riding than Garvan himself.

Edmund decided to leave Peridan be; Thunderbolt would no doubt try to learn more about him, so there was no need for Edmund to pry. For now.

* * *

They followed the stream down to a river and then rode on its left bank southeast, a long file of riders with a centaur and a leopard on the front as well as in the rear. Methos rode towards the rear, too: a newcomer without a definitive status. He found himself accompanied by the third centaur – actually, the first, who probably still did not quite trust him and wanted to keep an eye on him. Or perhaps he just wanted to know more about him. Either way, it made him feel uncomfortable; a centaur was hardly a creature you could treat lightly, especially not this one. Methos could almost feel a sharp mind evaluating him. That was beginning to form into an unnerving precedent.

"So you come with us after all," the centaur remarked.

"I certainly did not hope for such a quick solution," Methos retorted.

The centaur smiled slightly.

"The king has made up his mind," he said.

"You have not."

"I will not question the king," the centaur said with purpose in his voice.

"Even though he is a boy?"

"Would you question him?" the centaur asked, sharply.

"Not really," Methos said, and realised it was true. The king may be a boy, but he behaved like a king should. Like many kings did not, too. He would not question this king, or at least, he'd probably question the king much less than he questioned MacLeod, and that meant a lot (though, admittedly, he also simply questioned MacLeod a lot).

"I will not question the king," the centaur repeated, "for his judgment is good. And if he welcomed you, Peridan, you are welcome to me, too. My name is Thunderbolt."

"It is an honour to make your acquaintance, Thunderbolt," Methos said, and inclined his head. Thunderbolt nodded in acceptance.

This was, somehow, a place where you could say a sentence like that and people would take it at face value. It was the sort of place Methos the Deceiver should avoid at all costs, and often found himself irrevocably drawn to. Like the re-enacting society. Like Duncan's and Joe's friendship...

At least it wasn't his own fault this time.

"You have already met Lord Garvan," Thunderbolt said. "To the left of the king rides Lord Tol of Stormness Vast."

While Garvan was somewhat stocky and had a reddish hair and beard, Tol was slim, smooth-shaven, dark-haired – though not nearly as dark-haired as the king or MacLeod. Garvan had an air of effortless and somewhat reckless luxury about him; Tol was meticulously neat. King Edmund between them looked surprisingly impressive in his slight height; he was something in between them in his appearance as well, possessed of an easy, comfortable neatness that suggested a methodical yet creative and flexible mind. Out of the three, the king actually seemed best accommodated to a hunting party.

"Lord Tol is an advisor to the kings and queens," Thunderbolt added to his introductions.

In other words, someone to watch out for and hold in respect.

"And you, Thunderbolt?" Methos asked. He wondered about the exact mechanics of this strange society – were the creatures servants to the human Lords? Thunderbolt did not claim to be a Lord, yet he seemed to be someone with a higher status in the company as well.

"I come from Stormness Vast myself," Thunderbolt said. "I am their Majesties' tutor, and archivalist."

"Oh, good," Methos blurted out, before Peridan checked him in. "I like a good archive myself." Another of Methos' characteristics Peridan would share, then.

It turned out to have been the perfect deflective tactic: Thunderbolt forgot that he had – Methos had no doubt of that – wanted to find out where Peridan was from, and before they knew it, they were immersed deep in a conversation about the best archival systems and the best methods for preserving documents. Methos had to restrain himself from sharing some of the more recent and telling anecdotes, though (pity, that; he loved recounting the 1950s blunder of the Dead Sea scrolls and sticky tape). Thunderbolt showed no such restraint; he was clearly a passionate debater. Methos played along, feigning ignorance more often than truthfulness would allow, noting useful techniques (some were new to him; Watchers would have loved to have magic at their disposal). Thunderbolt unreservedly scoffed at some of his suggestions (some were good; some were red herrings).

In their debate, they both forgot to check their pace, Methos did not rein in his mare's liveliness too much, and they ended up right behind the King and the two nobles in the end. Methos noticed – he was used to keep his surroundings in check; Thunderbolt apparently did not, because when, about an hour later, Garvan turned around and said: "Lion's Mane, give it a rest at last!" - he nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise, forcing both Garvan and Tol into laughter.

"You'll bore Peridan to death," Tol said.

"Quite the contrary," Methos dismissed the suggestion.

"From listening to you, one would think that is a pen-sharpener at your side," Tol said.

"Do you mean this?" Methos laid his hand on his knife. "It can be used for many purposes."

Quill-sharpening was not one it was best suited to, though; it was too big. He actually would have preferred a sparring dagger. But he always liked to be prepared, and because he could not conceal anything in his doublet, he had used a more multi-purpose knife on the re-enacting event, even though it meant lessened sparring capabilities (which hurt his pride a bit, although he still could have beat them all without much effort, had he wanted). Now, he was rather glad that he had this particular knife and not the dagger.

"All I care about is whether the hand can actually carry out those purposes," Tol said. "It seems it only knows how to wield a pen."

"Pen can be a dangerous weapon," Methos said.

"It sure can," the King entered the conversation suddenly. "Words can be dangerous; words can twist reality."

He sounded as if he were recalling something. He sounded like a man with more experience than his twelve years of age accounted for. Maybe that was what being King did for you.

And then, just as suddenly, he shook himself out of his thoughts, pointed forwards to a widening glade at the river where another stream ran into it, and said:

"It is getting dark. We will break camp there."

Yes; Methos did like the King.

* * *

_The nobles invited into Narnia: first instance of fanon. Very logical fanon. There's quite a lot of stories dealing with this theme, if only in passing, which makes it dfficult for me to pinpoint where I first encountered it__. I find it intriguing, in part because I live in a country with a long "tradition" of emigration and re-immigration..._

___The dynamics between the four monarchs and other people's reactions to them: another instance of fanon. I wish I could remember where I lifted the idea from, because I am fairly sure it was a single story.____ If anyone knows who first came up with it, please, please, let me know! I certainly do not wish to steal other people's ideas.____ It was an interesting one, and I thought it could be an area where Methos' equalitarian approach to women would serve him well.  
_

___I should keep notes of these things, or something. There's quite a mess in my favourites and stuff in this respect, as I found out when trying to trace these two. Rather unfortunately for me, Chronicles of Narnia is one of the hugest fandoms here, which makes it quite impossible to find something just by browsing..._

_The matter of the beaver: Methos is, of course, counting on the herbivorous-ness of beavers here. The Beavers in _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ are very anthropomorphised and not really herbivores. That stands in contrast to the other books, where Lewis showed the Beasts with much more faithfulness to their biology, so to say (and not just the Beasts; I've always loved the explanation of the centaurs' breakfast in _Prince Caspian_.) I like the later approach much more, but I'll try and find some middle ground here._

_And this is where I run into an empty space: their journey to Cair Paravel is not exactly written as of now, though what follows is. I'll see what I can do about that..._


	3. Chapter 3 - The Witch and the Lion

**Chapter 3**

**In which our hero learns about the Witch and the Lion**

They dismounted in the glade and each member of the party immediately applied himself to a task. Some of the humans – servants, no doubt – unsaddled the horses and started handling the bags and provisions; Thunderbolt was overseeing them. The fauns, another of the centaurs and four of the humans began pitching two tents, apparently one for King Edmund and one for the other two lords. Some of the leopards and the bears threw themselves down to sleep almost immediately, while the rest flanked the place, together with the third centaur and the remaining humans. Methos duly noted that not entirely satisfactory fact: they were guarding the camp. It could be just common precaution (which he always approved of), but it could also mean that this world was not entirely safe even for the King's party, and that made him nervous. What could be here to warrant such measures from beasts of prey such as these?

Methos saw the beaver and the dwarfs disappearing into the surrounding forest; he assumed they went to gather wood. Not all of the dwarfs went, though: one of the five remained behind, with the people who took care of the horses. Methos, who had been left hanging and started unsaddling and treating his mare himself, realised that this one dwarf had ridden separate from the rest the whole journey. As far as he could tell through the jungle of black hair and beard on his face, he was fairly young. He also looked uncommonly sour. When Methos asked him, in his most polite tones, for the curry-comb, the dwarf practically threw it at him.

"What is the matter?" Methos asked.

The dwarf only grumbled something; it sounded suspiciously like "mind your own business."

Methos was not averse to minding his own business, but right now his own business was learning as much about this world and these people as possible, so he pressed on:

"It's the others, isn't it?" And indicated the way the other dwarfs had left. "Do they avoid you, or do you avoid them?"

"They have their reasons," the dwarf said, affirming the former.

"People always have reasons," Methos waxed philosophical. "Do you have reasons to wallow in your misery? If they're the same as their reasons to avoid you, it's probably wrong, you know."

The dwarf's beard moved; Methos assumed it to be a smirk. The dwarf kept quiet for a while, but he looked slightly less sour, at least as much as Methos could tell in between grooming the mare.

"You're good," the dwarf remarked suddenly.

"What?" Methos blurted out, confused.

"With the horse. You know how to treat her."

"Oh, that," Methos understood. "Good" was not a word customarily applied to him as it were, but here it made sense.

Taking care of the horses had been Silas' area of work, one that Methos had liked to share with him from time to time – something Kronos and Caspian, despite all the proclamations of brotherhood, had never quite understood. It was now his self-imposed atonement for Silas. Taking care of horses whenever he had the chance (which was not often). It was something he had gotten from Silas. A part of Silas he had received with his Quickening and carried in himself. It required penance; but it was not something he would discuss with anyone. It was easier just to do it.

"I travelled with horsemen once," he said. "I knew someone who knew more about horses than about humans. I got the knowledge from him."

"I work for King Edmund, take care of his horses," the dwarf explained. "I only treated reindeers before."

"That must be very different," Methos said, quickly recollecting all he knew about reindeers. It was not much. It more or less boiled down to a Saami film MacLeod had dragged him to once, image of a huge herd moving across a plain, image of people on sleds and ski. He had always preferred milder and warmer climates and South Finland was about as far as he had ever got.

"It is an honour," the dwarf said curtly.

"What is your name, by the way?" Methos asked.

"Thornbut," the dwarf said.

"I'm Peridan," Methos said, offering his hand to him.

"I heard," Thornbut said, and accepted the hand.

Methos gave Thornbut more of his knowledge of horses than he had given Thunderbolt of his knowledge of archives. It was an instant conspiracy of the outsiders. He decided, without much thinking, to arm this fellow with some useful knowledge. As the young knight he pretended to be, he could not do much by way of life wisdom (he'd deny having much of it, anyway), but something the dwarf could use in his line of work, something Methos had given him enough reason for possessing, worked wonders in lifting Thornbut's mood. And that, in turn, lifted Methos' mood. (He'd deny that, too.)

The other dwarfs, when they returned with armfuls of firewood, thus found them immersed in a detailed conversation. They eyed them rather suspiciously. When Methos bade good bye to Thornbut for the moment, intending to have a quick wash in the river before dinner (hygienic habits died hard, even though it did not make much difference for Methos's Immortal constitution), the leader of the dwarfs stopped him halfway there to give him a piece of his mind.

"You should not talk with Thornbut so much, Peridan," he said.

"Why not?" Peridan asked him, a bit more sharply than he would have done before the conversation with Thornbut had turned to be so satisfying.

"He worked for the Witch," the dwarf said, as if that explained everything. It probably did for him. Methos inwardly cursed the people's assumption that he knew what was going on. And then he thought: but he works for King Edmund now, does he not?

He said so.

That, miracle of miracles, made the dwarf somewhat antsy.

"The King accepted Thornbut's service, and he accepted mine," Methos said. "I see no reason why two such people could not have a civilised conversation together. Do you?"

The dwarf, apparently, did not.

Just to prove his point, Methos sat with Thornbut at dinner. Thunderbolt joined them at their fire, too, and several other people, like the two fauns; Methos began to understand that the dwarfs' aversion to Thornbut was not entirely universal.

Dinner was some roast fowl, smothered in herbs, with bread, cheese and berries, and wine or water, depending on what you preferred. Methos would have preferred beer; he went with wine and water. Before they started eating, though, Thunderbolt said something that could not be mistaken for anything but graces, although Methos did not know at whom the thanks were directed. During the prayer, he looked to the ground and more or less pretended not to be there.

He ate with relish; he was already quite hungry and the food was good. The best he had had in a long time; he felt like an old man, ridiculously so, when he kept thinking "this is what it tasted like when I was young." He would not be able to say when that had been, because he suspected he had never had anything quite so good to eat when he had been _really_ young, but the food tasted just like that all the same: it was precisely what food should be. Maybe it was the lack of any artificial additives; he could not help but think there was more to it. He did not stick to his food and his silent musings about it for long, though; he had too much else on his mind.

"The Witch," he said in the middle of the dinner, with purposeful tactlessness. Thornbut immediately began to look like his name incarnate again. Methos, now intent on learning what on earth was this all about, ignored his dirty looks and continued:

"Just what really happened?"

From the way the other dwarf had warned him about Thornbut's connection to the Witch, it was clear to him that everyone knew who she was. Or had been. But Peridan came from far away. He had a right to only having heard rumours, did he not?

"For one thing," Thunderbolt said, "it was really Aslan who defeated the Witch."

"Aslan?" Methos asked, confused; and then he was overcome by feelings that made even less sense. It brought forward something very similar to what the food had, a feeling of _just right_. Directly in its tracks followed dread, dread the likes of which he had not felt in a long time, more than just fearing for his life. He felt awe, like he had felt when he had sat with Alexa above the Grand Canyon, awe of something older, deeper, more substantial than him. He suddenly remembered what it was like to be young again, to look forward to living and not just cling to it: to wake up in the morning and breathe in the fresh air and think of nothing else. He felt it all at once, and none of it seemed to have any connection at all to that single word, which resembled the word for lion in some Turkic languages. It did not quite add up with the English used by everyone around, and it certainly did not explain why it should evoke all those feelings.

"Lion's Mane, he's one of _those_," one of the fauns whispered and rolled his eyes at his ignorance.

"Aslan," Thunderbolt said, "is the one true King of Narnia, son of the Emperor Behind the Sea. He comes from over the Eastern Sea."

He gestured vaguely in the direction of the East, and Methos thanked him inwardly for that bit of geography.

"A lion?" he asked uncertainly, walking on very thin ice now.

"_The_ Lion," the faun said.

"It was the Lion who defeated the White Witch," Thunderbolt nodded, repeating the information he had started out with. "It was Him who brought Spring back after the hundred years, it was Him who broke the Witch's claim on us on the Stone Table – stop flinching, Octavus, it is a fact we all know," he admonished that same faun, and went on, "and it was Him who finally killed the Witch in the battle at Beruna."

Methos nodded, committing it all to his memory and wondering what it all signified. It was getting more and more complicated. Thankfully, once you got Thunderbolt going, it apparently took some effort for him to stop.

"Not that the kings would not have played their part as well," he said. "King Peter is a mighty warrior, and he was one even two years ago. Without King Edmund's intervention, the Witch would have probably turned us all into stone. He shattered her wand. But it was Aslan who decided the battle with His comeback. Without Him, the four thrones on Cair Paravel would still be empty, and Narnia would still be covered with snow."

"And we would still be cowering in fear of the Witch," Thornbut murmured.

"Well," Methos conceded, "I would hate to be turned to stone myself."

"Some people risked that," the other faun said. "Most of us just sat and tried to stay out of trouble, though. Not all of us have the courage of Thunderbolt here, or Mr Beaver over there."

"Isn't that the way it always is?" Methos asked, thinking of all the oppressive regimes he had ever run into.

"Very probably," Thunderbolt nodded. "For some of us, the memory of Aslan, of the times before the White Witch had taken over Narnia, the tradition passed down was strong enough for us to wish to bring it back. But we hardly could on our own... Some realised that, and began to think it would never come again. Some simply did not know any better. Some..."

"Some actually thought they were better off with the Witch," Thornbut said. "Like my father."

"Ouch," Methos said, and Thornbut smiled.

Thornbut _smiled_.

"My mother didn't think so, and I was caught in the middle," he explained. "Then the Witch turned mom into stone, and... well, I really began to hate her then. The Witch, I mean."

Methos did not know quite how to react to that piece of news about Thornbut's family.

"Aslan came not long after that," Thornbut said. "And He was... He was magnificent. He turned the whole castle upside down, and brought mom back, and, well... it was quite easy to decide where I wanted to be after that."

"And them?" Methos indicated the other dwarfs.

"They had their little resistance cell," Thornbut said. "All against the Witch, and hating us who worked in her castle maybe even more. They think I got off the hook too easily. Maybe I did."

Thunderbolt shook his head.

"We all did," he said. "And them above all, in a way. They only came to Aslan's camp after the battle."

"And Thunderbolt should know; he was there," the faun who was not Octavus smirked.

It suggested another story, but this time Thunderbolt was not willing to share.

"Aslan and the kings and queens accepted them, like they accepted anybody else," he said. "That should be the end of it."

"Except they do not see it that way," Thornbut said, again quite bitterly. "And lots of others, too. Mr Tumnus is getting the short end of the stick as well. But less than me, because he's Queen Lucy's friend."

He rose and began collecting the few dishes that had been used during their dinner, and he made more noise handling them than was absolutely necessary. Thunderbolt watched him with a mixture of pity and disapproval in his eyes; then he rose, too, and said:

"I still have to go to King Edmund. You are not the only one asking for information, Peridan. Good night."

Methos was not very surprised; Thunderbolt had been keeping an eye on him while the King had stayed back. He only made a mental note to find out the last Queen's name as inconspicuously and as soon as possible.

"Well, now you should know that Aslan is not the demon some say He is," the second faun said, rising as well. "But then, I suppose you did have an inkling of that, if you went to Narnia, right?"

* * *

Methos found himself a mossy spot further away from the water. The ground was perfectly dry there, and as he did not have anything by way of sleeping mat, the soft, dense, inch-thick carpet of bright green moss fit the bill. It was rather a rumply mattress, even compared to the dormitory bed he had been sleeping in recently, and he had nothing to cover himself with either. Still, the summer night was fairly warm and he had a velvet doublet on; it would do in present circumstances.

He looked up at the stars, and realised, with a little shock, that they were of course not those of his world. The majestic dome of dark blue with millions of blinking bright dots and the ethereal curtain of light hanging among them was the same, but the stars were scattered in a completely different pattern. A feeling of longing overcame him again. The stars were brighter, the darkness deeper than in Seacouver or Paris nights. The sky was just as unreachable: even if you'd go into the space, it would only step that much further back and open new depths before you. He was not sure whether he wished to reach the stars, missed the Seacouver lights, or whether he so desperately desired something else entirely.

* * *

_Saami (Sami, Sámi) = Lapp, just in case you did not know._

_English in Narnia and Aslan's name: The usage of English is best discussed in _Babel_ by __Elizabeth Culmer; she links to her other thoughts from there (don't forget to read the comments!)__. I love me a linguistic fic, and like other fans, I see Methos as quite a bit of a (predominantly practical) linguist (although, just between us, Peter Wingfield's Russian pronunciation in _Timeless_ is quite atrocious). I'm quite sure the sheer number of African languages makes even his head reel, but I'm also convinced there is not much he does not know by way of languages in the Middle East area, and he'd notice such things._

_The Witch and those who had served her: I have seen stories dealing with Mr Tumnus' plight. I have not seen stories about the dwarfs. Which does not mean they are not there, it just means my mind is a clean slate in this respect, and thus Thornbut could march in with his morose jungle of black hair and beard and demand his story be written. I obey._

_Lewis' dwarfs tend to be morally somewhat grey (as much as anyone can be with Aslan in the game), to have mixed loyalties, to choose the stronger side and to look out for themselves above all. Sound familiar?_

_Unlike our hero, though, they also tend to hate their own kin on the other side of the fence._


	4. Chapter 4 - Proving himself

_Thank you, again, for the reviews. Elspeth: I think that discrepancy is what this story is running on... Anonymouse Nobody: Well, I'm... I'm afraid I'm rather puffing up with pride; I'll have much to live up to now!_

* * *

**Chapter 4**

**In which our hero proves himself**

Some people say that the first dream you dream in a new place is going to come true.

Methos knew that superstition. It dated from time immemorial; he had encountered it, with variations, in many cultures and countries. He had slept in many new places during his long life and dreamt many a dream. He rarely remembered them, and from those he did remember, none had come true (with the exception of one particularly vivid and disturbing dream in which he had fallen from a tall wall while fighting someone he had not wanted to kill for some reason. But then, that one had come true about four hundred years later; he was not sure whether that still counted.) He had used to pay attention to dreams and would have invariably woken up confused or scared; lately, he had learned to ascribe it all to his subconsciousness. (After about five thousand years and innumerable Quickenings, that had to be one tangled mess of a subconsciousness, which went a long way to explain some of the more outlandish ones.)

He would never be able to make sense of his first dream in Narnia. It involved ships at sea, horses, dwarfs, a raven and a lion. But he was yanked out of it before it could form any sort of sensible story.

Snorting and neighing, hoofs beating down. Cries. Gnarls. Running feet. The metal clank of swords being drawn.

Methos grabbed his own sword and jumped up even before he was fully awake. His eyes flew wide open and he took in the situation quickly: from the riverside, a mass of huge, grey, fanged creatures with glowing yellow eyes was streaming into their camp. Wolves? Too huge, too _weird_. The whole camp was in a state of general confusion and uproar; people were springing up from where they had slept, reaching for swords, groping about for their bows and arrows. King Edmund had already run out from his tent, sword drawn, trying to fight the attackers off; next to him was Thunderbolt, bow at the ready. Garvan and Tol emerged now. On the upper side of the glade, nearer to him, the horses were rearing up, trying to tear away in fear, adding to the overall confusion. People were being jumped, limbs were being torn. Someone had already fallen: there was a large body lying in a huddle at the river, probably the centaur guard.

The attacking creatures were not very organised and the Narnians were catching on quickly, but they had still clearly caught them by surprise and there were already too many of the assailants in the camp. He'd get wounded; he did not like the prospect.

* * *

Edmund and Thunderbolt forgot themselves in conversation; it did not only concern Peridan, but also all the other people they had met with during this expedition. Peridan's arrival and plea had changed Edmund's plans and they were leaving Lantern Waste earlier than they had originally intended. The king and his mentor had thus many issues to discuss and remained awake long after the rest of the camp had fallen asleep. Suddenly, they heard a cry from the direction of the river, and quiet growls. They grabbed their weapons and ran out from the tent. The centaur Dawnbreak, who had been guarding the camp at the riverbank, was falling to the ground, two dark wolf-like bodies on his back. Others were crossing the river; before Edmund and Thunderbolt could raise alarm, at least ten of them were out of the water and in the glade.

Thunderbolt shot first. Edmund followed suit by attacking the foremost of the werewolves, both king and centaur shouting at the others to wake up. More werewolves were coming. There were almost as many of them as in their own party, the largest group Edmund had seen since the battle at Beruna. He had heard rumours, but no one had known anything specific, no attacks had taken place. They must have been gathering their forces, lying low and waiting for the perfect opportunity. He knew they were bent on killing him, on having their revenge for their mistress; he did not intend to sell his life cheaply.

His own people were waking up quickly; none of the werewolves managed to catch anyone in their sleep, but they still managed to jump some people unprepared. Edmund did all his best to defend those who were still reaching for their arms. He had felled two of the werewolves already; now he was going at a third. He caught sight of Lord Garvan and Lord Tol running out of their tent and at once engaging two of the attackers. The dwarfs were already shooting crossbow darts at several of the werewolves. The darts were too small to kill them, unless you managed to hit the eye, but if they shot them with a sufficient amount in just the right places, it slowed them down enough for someone else to finish them off. Thornbut, unable to reach his own crossbow because a werewolf was in his path, drew a knife from his boot and slashed at its snout - rather foolishly, because that offered his arm to the creature's fangs; but he got away with it. Edmund kicked the crossbow closer to him. At the edge of the camp, Peridan had jumped up, sword in his hand.

The young man's subsequent behaviour was not what Edmund had expected. He ran to where the horses were tied and prancing about. He grabbed and loosed the reins of the gray of Lord Garvan's he had ridden the day before and swung onto her back, regardless of the fact that she was not saddled. Edmund noticed the distraught, scared look in his eyes. Was he running away?

And then, Peridan spurred his horse into the middle of the mêlée in the camp. Immediately, he caught the attention of two of the werewolves, which conveniently freed Tol and Garvan to deal with two others. The rider transformed before their very eyes. Garvan would never again doubt his riding prowess; Tol would never again question his skill with a sword. Rider and horse seemed like one: the way Peridan led the mare and moved on her back, the way he fought was almost reminiscent of a centaur. He made full use of the horse's range of movement and the reach it lent him with his sword. At moments – quite a lot of moments – Edmund expected him to fall off the horse's back during his daring moves, but he always pulled himself and the mare back into balance. He beheaded his two assailants almost immediately; then he danced his horse between others, stabbing here, slashing there, jumping over bodies, felling others like clover heads. It was actually quite scary. Edmund had been training with a sword since the moment he had arrived to Aslan's camp two years before and he had been in several battles since then (the first had been the worst). He had seen many warriors at work, his own brother not the least among them, but this man was better than anyone else. Better, more effective, dealing out the sharp edge of his sword as if he and his sword were one, just like he seemed to be one with his horse.

Whoever Peridan was, he was certainly a force to reckon with.

And when the last attacker fell under his sword, he stopped his horse, slid down from its back and leaned against it with a heavy sigh, as if the effortless way he had battled had taken all his effort.

"Do not forget to clean your sword, sir Peridan," Edmund told him. He had counted twelve werewolves falling under the man's sword: a dozen heads he had cut off. He had, single-handedly, killed about half of the attacking force.

Peridan glanced at him with a hollow look in his eyes; but he crouched and cleaned the blood on his sword away with a handful of grass.

"My brother always reminds me of that," Edmund explained, as he did the same.

"Your brother sounds like my friend," Peridan said, standing up again. Then, finally, the distant look in his eyes flashed into full recognition and he added, hastily: "I mean, I have a friend who is as diligent as that... who keeps reminding me to do things. Not that your brother..."

Edmund smiled. He could sense other people gathering around them, regarding Peridan with the same newfound respect, and he was glad for him.

"I hope he will be your friend, Peridan," he said and offered his hand to the young knight. "I believe you've saved all our lives here. You have fought valiantly."

"I could not have done that with a different horse," Peridan said simply, taking the offered hand.

"But how did you know?" Lord Garvan asked him in awe.

"Know what?" Lord Tol chimed in.

"Tira, the horse," Garvan explained. "She used to belong to a travelling company of entertainers, before they sold her to me. The way he moved with her – it was precisely the kind of manège they performed with her in their shows."

Peridan shrugged.

"It is the way she moves," he said. "I could tell she would be capable of it."

"I take it back, Peridan," Garvan said. "Please, forgive my folly. You are an excellent rider – such one I could never hope to be."

A smile crept onto Peridan's lips and he stretched his hand towards Garvan.

"There is nothing to forgive. I do not look like much; I like it that way and hone the look of not much." That drew a few laughs.

Garvan accepted the hand and shook it enthusiastically.

"Can we be friends?" he asked.

Peridan shrugged noncommittally.

"If you can promise never to call me 'boy' again," he said.

* * *

The centaur was not dead after all: Thunderbolt was treating him now, and he was slowly but surely getting up again. Apparently, they had jumped him and bitten him in the back just like wolves in Methos' world did with deer, but the centaur's different biology had saved him; he had only fainted from loss of blood. That was, definitely, good news.

The sight of the creatures was still not. People were already taking care of the dead bodies, dragging them to a gorge in the forest. Octavus was treating the other wounded. Methos, in the meantime, led the mare to the river and washed the gore from her coat; he could not bring himself to touch the dead bodies and was not sure just how much of his knowledge of healing he should reveal. King Edmund crouched next to him, washing himself. Methos finished with the mare, now trying to dry her up.

"Were they... werewolves?" he ventured.

"Yes," the King nodded. "We had heard rumours of a group in this area, but no one knew there were this many. It is difficult to keep trace of them: they look much like humans normally, but they can turn into wolf-form at will."

That was different from the way werewolves were usually described in his world, and more bad news. They could not rely on lunar phases here. It was true that in the stories of the Baltic area, people sometimes could turn into a wolf at their whimsy, but then those werewolves were usually not viewed as necessarily evil. He had a hard time seeing these monsters he had fought as anything but. They had not been hunting, as wolves would; they had been attacking a sleeping enemy camp. As far as tactics went, he would easily approve of that; but something about the variety and the prevailing (if not entirely universal) supportive spirit in said camp, as opposed to the grey fanged mass and uncontrolled malice of the werewolves, convinced him how matters stood here.

"They used to serve the White Witch," King Edmund confirmed his suspicions. "There were many in her army. Those who had escaped are still hiding in the wilder areas of our dominion, and wage a continuous war against us; although we had thought them already subdued."

"I've never seen their like before," Methos said, still processing the idea.

"I have only encountered them in Narnia myself," the King said. "Where I come from, they are only stories."

Methos nodded, numbly; and then he realised the importance of what the king had just said. He was not Narnian in origin? Come to think of it, why would a child of all people become king after a tyrant has been overthrown? One who had ruled for a hundred years if what Thunderbolt had said was to be believed; the centaur did seem very truthful. It was not entirely a case of an heir to a previous dynasty if Edmund was ruling with his brother and sisters... but who knew what the customs were like here. It was not like the medieval feudal model would be the only possible one – although the human part of the populace he had encountered so far did seem very medievally feudal. He still did not know why the humans were lords and the others not, either. There was something rather incongruous going on here, with Tol and Garvan being somewhat aloof of the creatures as well as their human servants, and the king being – well, he was very dignified, but he did not keep his distance from anyone in any obvious way. He had helped with the fires and food, Methos recalled now. It could be his age; it could be something else. Children and teenagers were, after all, often the fiercest proponents of "class" divisions.

And there was still the matter of Aslan.

Simply asking the king would be easiest but, unfortunately, also quite impertinent.

"For one who had not encountered such creatures before, you fought outstandingly," the king added. Methos was surprised out of his thoughts by that remark, actually even flinched; he had, in a way, already forgotten all about the fight.

"I did not have much choice in the matter," he said. "Run, be run over, run them over."

Edmund laughed, and did not mention it anymore, instead approaching the wounded centaur, who was now finally back on all four (waitaminute, it was not "all" four), and asking after his state of health. King Edmund, Methos thought, might have an understanding for a man who kills because he'd rather not be killed himself.

He found Thunderbolt at his side instead, again. Methos hoped he would not be subjected to another round of praise, and to his relief, he was not. They washed together, Methos squatting down at the water, Thunderbolt stooping into it almost like a camel.

"The king is not from Narnia?" Methos asked quietly, hoping he was not revealing too much of himself now.

"No," Thunderbolt said. "There were no humans in Narnia until recently; the Witch saw to that. She did not want the prophecy to be fulfilled, of course. The prophecy about the four thrones of Cair Paravel," he added, realising that Peridan did not know as much as native Narnians.

"_When Adam's flesh and Adam's bone_

_Sits at Cair Paravel in throne,_

_The evil time will be over and done,"_ he recited. "I told you, Sons of Adam still count low in our land. Not even the Witch was human, although she would have liked us to think so."

Methos shook his head, water spattering around.

"I'm afraid this will take some getting used to," he said. "No offense meant."

"None taken," Thunderbolt said. "Humans took some getting used to for us, too."

* * *

He had thought falling asleep again would be difficult, after everything that had happened and everything he had learned. But he fell asleep almost immediately, and slept soundly, without any other interruptions.

* * *

_Okay, does anybody else know this superstition, aside from this Czech girl whose teachers used that on her and her classmates on invariably dreary ski courses? – But it seems to me like the kind of thing that _could_ spring up in various cultures, in different versions, like Jacob's dream when he is on the run, the dreams in which one would determine one's totem/life-path, and so on and so forth. There also seems to be something similar going on in _The Lord of the Rings_ with Frodo's dream in Tom Bombadil's house. I'm toying here with the idea that maybe in Narnia this would be similar to what's happening to Frodo._

_The verses Thunderbolt is quoting are, of course, Lewis' own, taken from _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe._ I do not own them. I do not own the book. I kind of wish I owned the (first) Czech translation, though; but that one is owned by someone else, too._


	5. Chapter 5 - The Arrival

_Phew, the next chapter's finally here! My spare time train of thought got derailed by a phenomenal concert and then I had trouble making it all fit together. It resulted in a slightly longer chapter than usual in the end._

* * *

**Chapter 5**

**In which our hero arrives to the castle**

Methos woke up the next morning feeling all crampy and rather cold, too. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and did some exercises, to get the cricks in his body out and warm up as well as to simply keep in shape. (Ever since he had met MacLeod and been dragged to so many unwelcome adventures, he had had to really keep up his physique again. It had even been fun to spar and exercise with Duncan and goad on each other; it wasn't very enjoyable to do it alone just because he had to.) But he did not practise with his sword – he was still loathe to show his possible weaknesses as well as his strengths in front of strangers, and besides, he had had enough of that in the night.

They rode slowly that day, making many stops on account of their wounded, particularly the centaur. (His name was, as Methos learned, Dawnbreak. Centaurs seemed to have composite names tied to the natural world – the third one was called Riverglen.) The landscape slowly opened and the forests gave way to hilly meadows. The road, originally following the stony riverbank, turned into a beaten path with summer-yellowed grass, dappled with flowers, on both sides. Poppy red, cornflower blue, bright yellow dandelions, white daisies, the purple of corncockle, and many others Methos could not recognise at a glance. The river was now rolling slowly further to the right, its banks and water graced by bowing willow trees, gently murmuring alders and elder bushes in full sweet-scented bloom. Crickets were chirping everywhere around them and it all somehow made Methos feel very lazy. That had also something to do with the weather: the sun was shining persistently. But there was a light breeze blowing as well, pushing tattered white clouds on the high blue skies. Still, he was soon hot in his velvet and began to envy the centaurs and fauns their bare chests. Although maybe they were not so better off with their coats of fur elsewhere on their bodies.

Occasionally, Methos could now see small settlements scattered throughout the landscape, usually solitary farms enclosed by little copses and fields, and he pondered his luck in meeting the hunting party – he would have certainly run into civilisation later rather than sooner had he followed the creek and the river downstream on his own. (Although he would not have died of hunger in either case, because the forests were teeming with berries.) Narnia did not seem to be very densely populated – but then, some of its populace was very unusual and would probably also have very unusual dwellings. Several of those buildings he saw did look rather out of the ordinary – very often too small for humans. Beavers, he recalled, lived in mounds of twigs at rivers, or some such. Did Narnian beavers build those? Did they build dams? And bears and leopards – those did not build anything in his world. Were there other Beasts like them? Talking Beasts?Or even talking _Crickets, _maybe?

After meeting the centaur and after having seen the Beasts carry weapons and walk on hind legs occasionally, even those who never got up in his world (though they all ran on all four when they travelled), he had not been _too_ shocked to hear them speak, but it was still strange. Like having fallen into a Beatrix Potter book, or something, except that those did not contain centaurs and fauns. Maybe like _The_ _Wind in the Willows_ – that one had Pan. When had he read that? The first time, it had been in translation, he recalled, and the title had not alluded to the episode with Pan. It had made the demi-god stand out all the more... But these fantastic Narnians were not demi-gods. They were simply _people_.

When he looked to the south, he could make out higher and higher mountains looming on the horizon. The highest, or one of the highest, barely to be discerned far away in the southwest, had a double peak: that could be a good orientation point if he ever got lost (more than he already was). He looked over the line of mountains and realised, with awe, that he had never seen any mountains quite like these. This world kept throwing surprises at him. He would not be able to tell whether it was an old or a new mountain range, geologically. It looked fresh, but not in any usual way. Like freshly painted. Like a cracked loaf of bread freshly taken out of the oven...

Okay, point delivered. Time to eat.

* * *

It took them two days to travel to Beruna from the camp where they had been attacked – slightly longer than usual, Edmund recalled. But it was a pleasant journey. They had food to spare (most of their catch from the hunts in Lantern Waste had gone to the locals anyway), the weather was nice and their wounded seemed to be on the mend, in spite of travelling.

In days like these, it was good to be a king of Narnia.

They stayed the night in Beruna, in the inn that had almost as if established itself in the village after his and his siblings' coronation. Beruna was always the place to stay whenever you went along the Great River – and great many people did travel along the river. Of course, there were really people behind the inn's establishment, a dwarf couple and their satyr friend. Many other people had helped to build the large house and some more were employed there now.

In the evening, at the large hearth in the inn's public room, the Narnians' minds turned to stories. Edmund, after some coaxing, told the story of his and his siblings' arrival to Narnia via the magic wardrobe. He told it in quite short, because all his Narnian companions had heard it before. Only much later, when some of the people present had become rather tipsy and started pestering Peridan for a story, did Edmund realise that his and his siblings' origins must have been news for the young knight. But Peridan had listened attentively and did not interrupt the flow of his story – for which, frankly, Edmund was very grateful, because he had never been as good at storytelling as Lucy was.

Peridan, in the end, told a silly anecdote about a duck who wanted to buy bread in a pub. The moral of the story seemed to be to check the situation first if you were about to pester others.

* * *

The village – Beruna, Methos learned – lay at a ford which they were apparently going to cross the next day. It was probably also a marketplace; it certainly had a large central square. It was too rural to be called a town, with pastures and no surrounding walls, but certainly larger and more clustered than the settlements he had seen previously. The houses were mostly wooden, but there was also some brick and stone. The largest house was definitely the inn they were staying in, although it did not seem to be the sturdiest – it had the look of a rather hastily set up frame house. There was no building that would resemble a town hall; he wondered whether Beruna had any internal management. It was a bit difficult to imagine that all its diverse inhabitants would get along easily without some rules.

He was extremely glad to find out the whole party's expenses in the inn were covered by the king (well, maybe excluding the Lords' companies). He had nothing by way of money on his person – not even US dollars.

And he indeed listened attentively to the king's story. It answered some questions. How come these four (Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy) had become kings and queens? Apparently, in part because it fulfilled the prophecy and Aslan designated them to be kings and queens, and in part because they had ended up leading the Narnian opposition against the White Witch. Even if it was more complicated in Edmund's case... He really felt for him, knowing full well what it was like to betray someone close to you. He wondered how the king could tell the story so calmly; Methos had not learned to speak of what had happened with the Four Horsemen yet. He was also amazed by the ease the Narnians accepted the story.

It posed some even more curious questions for him, too. How come these particular four had been the people to become the kings and queens? Why, if this world did have humans, did it have to be these four who had come from a different world – his world, from the sound of it? Why bring people from a different world? Why – why him?

Edmund had said it had been Aslan's will for them. That was all right for a king to say; but Methos could not settle for a royal explanation, because he was not royalty. He was just a guy who had become lost, and right now, in this warm room, with good food and good drink (they had beer! and excellent beer at that), he was still really annoyed. He had been in this country for more than two days now and he had absolutely no clue what he was doing here. MacLeod had gotten a spirit guide in the form of the late Hugh Fitzcairn in his alternate reality experience. _Of course_ the Highlander would get a guide, and _of course_ Methos would be left hanging. That was the way things were with the Highlander. He was a special case who got special treatment; even Methos himself could not help but treat him differently than most people...

And he really did not know why on earth would _he_ need to be taught a lesson, either. It was certainly not the same lesson Duncan had received, because Methos had no intention whatsoever of depriving the world of his presence. Besides, this did not seem to be the same kind of alternate reality. For all he knew, he had been transported into a different world, and that was it. Edmund and his siblings had been here for two years now. He might as well get used to the idea; but he did not like the idea very much.

Not that he would not like Narnia, all in all. But he had omitted to have his origin in the other world known; now he was not sure he could, anymore. How would he explain to a kid from mid-20th century Britain – because he began to understand as much about Edmund's roots, what with his accent and what with being sent to the country because of a war – how would he explain his medieval attire and weapons? It would take too much detail, and one of the things you were not supposed to do was to tell people from your past about their future, right? So he'd have to be from the Middle Ages. He did not feel like pretending to be from a similar period twice. Easier to stick to one pretention. Peridan, from somewhere West. Trying to find his place in Narnia – because he was doing that anyway.

And even with the beautiful landscape and the excellent beer, he missed the other world too much. Which probably explained why he told Joe's favourite silly joke about a duck in a bar when asked for a story.

* * *

It was a warm late June afternoon and Lucy was spending it in what constituted one of her favourite parts of Cair Paravel now: the herb garden, with its surrounding shady archways and sprawling lawns. Both Susan and Peter had found excuse to take their work there as well. It was truly the best place for such a day: aside from providing equal amounts of sun and shade to suit anyone's needs, it also offered a good view of Narnia towards the west, a direction they often looked now that Edmund had gone to the Lantern woods.

And good thing they did, too, because it was that day that Edmund's party returned. They emerged from the small forest at the riverside, a line of Beasts and riders slowly making its way towards the castle; the glistening of sun on the harness, sword hilts and arrowheads could occasionally be seen even from that distance. All three siblings set down their work eventually and moved to the West Gate with the intention to meet Edmund's party halfway.

As they watched them approaching, they counted the people. It was an automatic mental check they always did, though rarely spoke of, in these still dangerous times. Thankfully, they usually arrived at the number they expected to arrive at. This time, they did not: Lord Garvan's spare horse was carrying an additional rider.

"There is someone new!" Lucy exclaimed excitedly and ran towards the hunting party to welcome them home and meet the new arrival. She liked meeting new people – humans, Talking Beasts, other creatures – it did not matter, as long as they carried interesting stories to tell and the promise of friendship.

This one was a young man, like many of those that had come in the last year or so. He had dark hair and brown eyes and looked at the world with a quiet curiosity and consideration she took an immediate liking to. As she approached him, he slipped down from Tira's back and bowed to her – not excessively low, but still with respect.

"Welcome to Cair Paravel, sir –" she said.

"Peridan, Your Majesty," he replied smoothly.

"Peridan," she repeated, liking the name just like she liked the man. He reminded her somewhat of Edmund, although she would be unable to say why. She welcomed her old friends and her brother after him. Edmund was smiling: of course, he knew how much she liked meeting new people.

"We met Peridan in the Lantern woods," Edmund said. "He offered me the service of his sword – and mind – in exchange for peaceful acceptation into Narnia. I thought we could give him a chance, and he jumped at the chance at the nearest occasion. We were attacked, Lu – we are all right, do not worry, and that is certainly also thanks to Peridan here. The service of his sword is a valuable thing indeed."

"Then you are twice welcome," she turned back to Peridan. "For wanting to settle in Narnia, which is dear to me, and for helping my brother."

He seemed strangely bemused by that.

"That was only natural," he said – murmured, really.

At that moment, Peter and Susan finally arrived; the horses were led away, which left the hunters and travellers free to converse. The introductions and explanations repeated – and so did the thanks. Peridan seemed more and more uncomfortable about it – he dealt with the introductions like a true knight, but the thanks seemed to make him very self-conscious. Peter and Susan caught onto his uneasiness as well and changed the topic to things more practical.

"Is this all you have on you?" Susan asked.

"As you see me, Your Majesty," he said, stretching out his arms and showing himself off in a rather self-mocking gesture. "Not even the horse is mine. I am not much of an asset to a royal court, I am afraid. I can do many things, though, and if you deem me fit to serve at the stables, or scrub the floors, I can do that."

Susan smiled.

"I do not think that will be necessary, sir Peridan," she said. "For now, I think, you will need a bath and a change of clothes. You can certainly get both at Cair Paravel."

"You shall be given a room," Peter said, "and please, come to the feasting hall for dinner afterwards. We can discuss what position you can take at our court then. I gather you do not come from a Narnian bloodline?"

"Not that I am aware of," Peridan said. "But Narnia seems like a welcoming place, and if I can make myself in any way useful to it, I will."

That was quite enough. Wanting to be useful was in the end more important than bloodlines.

"I will take you to your room," Lucy said excitedly; she wanted to learn more about this young man. "The one at the western wing, right?" she checked with her siblings, who all nodded; there was a room recently re-decorated that simply _needed_ to be occupied now. The others would no doubt want to discuss Edmund's mission in Lantern Waste; she could do with hearing the results in concise form later.

Peridan thanked her, and they set off at a leisurely pace towards the castle.

"So what do you think of Narnia so far?" she asked him.

"Would you be offended if I did not think much of it, Your Majesty?" he asked.

"Definitely," she said. "But I may still understand."

He smiled.

"You will not be," he said. "I like it. I admit it was a shock for me at first – Thunderbolt aiming an arrow at me had something to do with that, too – and you do have some nasty enemies..." he trailed off for a moment. "But I like it. I liked the company on the way here, and the landscape – oh, that is fabulous! The mountains at the south – I got just a glimpse of them, but what a beauty! I have never seen anything quite like them. And the water, the rivers and the sea here... It is so clear."

She beamed at him then. He seemed to like the same things about Narnia that she did, so far, and the way he spoke of it, the light in his eyes when he spoke of it, reminded her of her own wonder. Here was an admirer of nature, just like her.

"Is it not wonderful?" she said. "Oh, I do so hope you will be able to stay. But I think you will. Edmund likes you, and so do I, and I don't think Peter could refuse a knight like you. And I certainly do not think you would be forced to scrub the floors. Unless you would really like it," she winked at him.

"I must admit, I would not," he said. "Does anybody?"

"Oh, I don't know," she said thoughtfully. "I guess not. Good question. I should try it some time, just to see whether I like it."

He laughed unreservedly; and then he stopped abruptly and said:

"I'm sorry; I meant no disrespect..."

"Oh dear, of course not," she assured him. His laughter was so refreshing to hear – she did not want him to stop. They entered the castle, and as they walked the corridors and stairs, she continued explaining matters to him:

"You have to show us proper respect as the kings and queens, of course, but that should not stand in the way of friendship. And I like you and would like you to be a friend. So if I say something funny, feel free to laugh – unless it is a serious matter, in which case you probably should not laugh."

"I will remember that," he said. "What am I supposed to do in awkward silences in cases of serious matters when somebody says something funny that does not match the occasion?"

Now it was her turn to laugh.

"Have I overstepped the boundaries of respect?" he asked, sounding genuinely worried.

"You have shown foresight, caution and consideration. No, you have not," she said. "Better ask now than do something inappropriate when the situation arises, I think."

"So I thought," he said.

"But, frankly, I do not know," she added. "The answer to that question, I mean."

"Try not to laugh so obviously that the person notices?" he suggested. She laughed again.

"That's as good an answer as any," she replied.

* * *

_I might be taking a liberty with elder bushes in bloom in late June... I mean, they certainly do bloom in late June in some places around here, but those are usually highlands..._


	6. Chapter 6 - Entering and Discussions

**Chapter 6**

**In which our hero enters the castle and is discussed**

As the rest of the royal party walked into the castle in Queen Lucy and Peridan's tracks, Lord Garvan described Peridan's fighting and riding skills in more detail and with much animation to those who had stayed at Cair Paravel. (He dedicated more attention to the riding, which, coming from him, was not a big surprise.)

"He must come from those interior plains in Western Telmar," he said. "Or at least must have spent some considerable time among the Western riders – they are still largely nomadic. I have never seen anyone but them – and some of the inhabitants of the Western Calormene provinces, perhaps – ride like him. He did it all without a saddle! I was really foolish to disbelieve his skills – but what was I to think of a knight who walks on foot?"

"My lord Garvan, it was a natural conclusion; but perhaps not one you should have worded aloud," King Edmund said.

"A great deal of difficulties can be avoided if thoughts are not worded aloud," Tol said. "But then, I did not fare much better. - If he can be trusted, he is far more of an asset than he would make us believe. I take it he comes from a good family, though not a Narnian one. A bad fortune has forced many a knight to a lesser status than his lineage speaks for – many a Narnian knight as well."

"Western Telmar, you say?" King Peter asked thoughtfully. "Those people's relation to the king of Telmar is rather tense, is it not? That would explain why he prefers to live in Narnia."

"Telmar likes mighty warriors, and demands warlike life," Thunderbolt said. "And while Peridan is a great warrior, can you imagine a man who 'likes a good archive' among the Telmarines? He would not find it a good place to live."

"It must have felt a godsend to find a country that is trying to live as peacefully as Narnia does," Queen Susan said.

* * *

It was getting curiouser and curiouser. He had never met a monarch quite like these four. They all behaved with royal dignity – even Lucy in her freely outspoken ways. But they were the kind of royals whose knowledge of their elevated position made them all the more sensitive to the plight of everyone else. And they were clearly a very loving royal family. Those were rare, precious traits: not so rare as to be completely new to him, but rare enough to give him an idea that these four were something else.

The castle was quite unique, too. He saw features he recalled from his own past – on the surface, it was certainly a medieval castle like any other – but the architecture and overall style was always a bit off; not in a bad way. There were features that would not be found in medieval buildings, construction techniques not known in the Middle Ages, as far as he could tell (he had to admit he was not exactly an expert on architecture). Some spots reminded him of other times, maybe Renaissance with its harmonious lightness, maybe Romanticism with its playfulness. All in all, it was its own style. The various aspects seemed to come together, not supersede one another like they did in his world. And as fantastic as it was, as this world was, it felt very real and deep-rooted. It all served a purpose, he thought. The decorations on the floors, walls and ceilings had a meaning, although it was one he could not quite grasp so far. He could see the image of lion time and again. Aslan. Whatever it really meant, whoever he really was, it was important to the people of this country, and therefore, perhaps, also to him.

He could tell the castle was quite old, perhaps as old as castles in his own world; at places, he could also see it had not been used for a long time before these four monarchs came to reside here. Still, those signs of disuse did not quite line up with the hundred years he had heard of, especially not a hundred years of winter. If documents could be preserved by magic, perhaps so could castles...

They met many inhabitants on their way to his room, because the western wing was apparently one where much activity was going on. Talking Beasts dominated the corridors; many of them were of the smaller variety and every time he heard them greet Queen Lucy in their peeping voices, with an amusing combination of cheerful friendship and polite respect, he flinched a bit; but he tried to keep himself in check. It was weird. _Very_ weird. But then, so was he, so was his kind; who was he to judge it?

The room he was assigned, situated on the second floor, was also beautifully built. It had a domed vault, decorated with stonework rosettes; the walls were half-covered with wooden panels and the floor was made of wooden tiles, no doubt to stop some of the cold of the stone. The walls had apparently been only recently whitewashed. There was a small table with a single chair under the window which offered good evening light (a fact the academic part of his nature noted with satisfaction). An upholstered bench that could double as a bed stood at one side, a heavy carved chest for clothes and other possessions in its feet. A small tub and a sink were crammed into the far corner, which could be hidden behind a curtain. There was no hearth, only an ironwork coal heater; the room was small enough.

It was very bare compared to all the comforts of the modern age, but he was fine with that. Even in the modern age, he often went for the barest minimum. The unpredictable lifestyle of an Immortal demanded that. Yes, he liked his comforts, his art and his books whenever he had the chance to accumulate them and he preferred to stay in comfortable and well-equipped places; but he knew when to let go and how to strip his lifestyle down to that of a drifter when necessary. So yes, this was perfectly fine with him.

It certainly beat being lost in a forest.

"Will this be fine?" Queen Lucy asked, as if catching onto his thoughts.

"Your Majesty, it is more than I could have hoped for," he said genuinely.

And so it was. He certainly had not hoped for such a warm welcome when Thunderbolt had aimed his arrow at him.

"Good!" she said. "I would tell you to settle in, except you do not have much to settle in with... I will send someone to bring you water, and clean clothes – I hope we'll have some clothes to fit you; you're taller than Peter... – and whatever else you may need. Do you have any wishes in particular?"

He considered the question. What would he need? Right now, bath, clothes, food and drink seemed to cover it. Oh, right... Bummer, how do you ask a queen about the location of toilets? He decided for the frontal approach that seemed to have worked with her so far, and asked her just that.

She laughed and showed him the in-built toilet in the outside wall of the room, hidden behind a panel door in the woodwork.

So he had just asked a queen a most impertinent question. But what a queen she was! Which other queen would bother showing a complete nobody to his new room, come to think of it? What a queen, indeed!

"Anything else?" she asked, laughter still dancing in her blue eyes.

"Anything to read?" he ventured.

"Oh!" She seemed a bit surprised, but also pleased. "What do you like to read?"

He shrugged.

"Just about anything, really," he said. "Perhaps some history or geography of Narnia for now? I would like to learn more of the country I have decided to make my home."

"You are a brave man, Peridan," she said thoughtfully. "To hang everything in your life onto such a wild hope... Why exactly?"

What was he supposed to say? He settled for "The alternative is unthinkable," even though it left a rather foul taste in his mouth. But it was true, was it not? The alternative of being shot like a trespasser, in this case, or siding up with the enemies of Narnia who did not seem like a very pleasant bunch (nor very efficient, for that matter). In some ways, it even beat being embroiled with a re-enacting group; here, at least, he played one role all the time, which he was used to. "So far, it seems far better to serve in Narnia than to... well... not really rule elsewhere," he added, to wash out the remaining foul taste.

"That may be a good way to put it," she said thoughtfully, and with that, she departed from the room, leaving him with a strange feeling that he had just had a brush with Immortality without the accompanying buzz.

* * *

King Peter's study had already been the scene of many a council. This time, the kings, Queen Susan and their advisors, Lord Tol, Thunderbolt and Mr Tumnus, were discussing the situation in Lantern Waste. As it used to be the Witch's home, it was one of the more turbulent parts of Narnia, but things were finally settling now. Mr Tumnus came from there and often visited home (though this time he had not, because he was helping a faun community south of Cair Paravel to establish a vineyard). He expressed his opinion that the group of werewolves King Edmund had fought must have been one of the last, if not the last one. That left the council free to talk about the peaceful work going on in the province, until Queen Lucy arrived.

"So what do you make of our guest, Lu?" Peter asked her when she settled in a chair. "Guessing by your smile, you like him."

"I do," she smiled even more. "He asked for books to read!"

"That is certainly a welcome trait in a knight," said Mr Tumnus, who liked books and did not like fighting.

"And it signifies an open mind willing to learn," Thunderbolt nodded. "Something I have already noticed about Peridan on our way here."

"He wants to know more of the history and geography of Narnia," Lucy said. "Thunderbolt, could you find something for him? It seems he chose to make Narnia his home on rumours alone. It sounds a bit foolish, but I like that, too. He said..." she smiled fondly, "he said that the alternative was unthinkable..."

"That can mean two things, though," Lord Tol interjected, before she could continue with Peridan's following words. "He is certainly an accomplished warrior; but he is also..."

"A killer," Edmund said. "Yes, I can see what you mean, Tol."

Tol smiled, a bit smugly. (It is difficult not to look smug when you are so meticulously clean and impeccably dressed.)

"But," Edmund continued, "I do not think that is the case here. Did you see the look in his eyes? Before he attacked all those werewolves, he was genuinely _scared_ – and yet he attacked them."

"I have not seen much of him yet, mind you," Peter said, "but he rather gives the impression of someone who wants to make his own life worthy."

"Yes," Susan said. "He would scrub the floors if that was what was asked of him."

The four monarchs and Mr Tumnus laughed at that. Thunderbolt smirked; Tol frowned in thought.

"But seriously," Susan said, "I want to keep him around, if only to see what he is really like."

"But what if he only wants to learn more of Narnia?" Tol asked. "What if he asks for a place at this court, and for books to learn, to take that information to someone else who wants to know?"

"That is an important question," Peter said. "It is true that we do not really know who he is, and why he came to Narnia."

"He pledged himself to me. I do not think he would betray us," Edmund said.

"May I ask why not, Your Majesty?" Tol asked.

"Because I know," Edmund said seriously. "He does not have the look, if that makes sense. It is true that he takes everything in, and it is true that he is considering everything he takes in, but he is considering in a different way. Not as someone composing a message, rather as someone who thinks before acting."

"Good point, Ed," Peter said. "I would not be able to put it that way, but I know what you mean. As I said, he gives to me the impression of someone who wants to do his best."

"So you really want to give him a chance, Your Majesties?" Tol asked.

"I want to give everyone a chance to do their best," Edmund said. "Seeing as I got it."

At that, Tol gaped a bit, in quite an undignified way that would shame him if he could see himself.

"I think it's what I am supposed to do," Edmund added, quickly. "It is no virtue of my own, but it is all the more reason to consider everyone the same way..."

"It is what Aslan would want from us," Thunderbolt said.

"Yes."

"If it is true that Peridan can read and write well, he could be our scribe for the time being," Susan suggested, again successfully avoiding a touchy issue by drawing attention to things practical. "Thunderbolt could dedicate more of his time to his other duties in that case."

"I could certainly make use of more time, Your Majesty," the centaur lowered his head in agreement.

"That is a good idea, Susan," Peter said. "We will ask him at dinner whether he would accept the position. For all his talk about scrubbing the floors, he _is_ a knight and may not find it a worthy one."

"I am sure he will," Lucy said. "You see, he said – he said it seemed to him better to serve here than to _not really rule elsewhere_. I think he already knows that standing above others is no easy job..."

* * *

Lucy was right, as she often was. When Peter posed the question to Peridan at dinner, the young man's face lit up with genuine joy.

"That would be perfect," he said. "Yes, of course I can read and write. In fact, I like that kind of work – much more than I would like scrubbing the floors, I admit."

That seemed to be turning into a running joke.

"So I can write records, or compare records if that is what you need, and write letters, or whatever. Yes, I will do that. Thank you."

"You will work under Thunderbolt's guidance, before you learn enough to work on your own," Peter said. Peridan nodded.

"We will require the service of your mind on everyday basis, then," Edmund said, "but the offer of your sword you have made to me is still held valid as well. You may be called to arms at any time, Peridan."

Peridan nodded gravely.

"We will provide you with anything you would need," Susan assured him. "Clothes and food and rooms to live; and armour and horse if the occasion calls for it."

Peridan nodded again. What went unspoken was the fact that the clothes and perhaps also the armour would probably take some time: he was now wearing a centaur's winter tunic that was a bit too loose and short for him.

"Your Majesties, may I say something to that?" Lord Garvan interjected suddenly.

"Of course," Peter said.

"I think you do not have to provide Peridan with a horse," Garvan said, a bit hastily, but with a firm purpose in his voice. "I think he has already found himself just the horse he needs, and I will gladly give her to him. Peridan, from now on, Tira is yours and only yours, including the harness of course."

Edmund and Peter had suspected the gesture, but Peridan apparently had not. He gaped at Garvan for a little while, and then he thanked him in a rather shocked and shaken voice.

"I could never ride her as well as you do, my friend," Garvan said. "It is only natural."

Peridan smiled widely then and kept smiling for the rest of the dinner.

* * *

Tazzik, the leader of the Black Dwarf hunters, spent dinner time with the leader of the Red Dwarf smiths, who went under the _nomen omen_ of Smithkin. To say that they dined together would be quite a stretch, because Smithkin kept fiddling with various objects on the table, most of which were connected to his work, and if he gave his food half his mind, it was too much. Even Tazzik only ate in between speaking.

"With all due respect to Their Majesties," he said, "they are simply accepting _anyone_. That Thornbut and others who served _her_, and now all these strangers! This last one isn't even Narnian. It's a wonder no one has cut their throats in their sleep yet. This Peridan – he's Telmarine, and you know how those Telmarines are. A bloodthirsty rabble, the lot of them. You should have seen him – he's a killer, _she_ had nothing on _him!_ I tell you, they've let a snake into the house. Sided up with Thornbut immediately. You know what they say: birds of a feather flock together. But they don't see it. Shouldn't they have punished all the collaborators by now? That had to be the first thing to do, and then there would be enough for all good people and no need to invite workers from who knows where. I say, Smithkin, would _you_ let a complete stranger into your workshop? I bet not."

"Sorry, what?" asked Smithkin, with his mouth full of a large bite from the sandwich he was holding in his left hand; his right was occupied by scribbling over his technical drawings with a pencil.

"Were you even listening?" Tazzik asked crossly.

"I stopped at 'all due respect'," Smithkin said, and started ticking off items on his To Do list.

* * *

_With thanks to Heliopause for a discussion of Narnian names. These are my poor attempts. Smithkin's name was inspired by Ilona Royce Smithkin, a red-headed artist I came to know via the blog Advanced Style... Tazzik is kind of a cross between Fezzik from Princess Bride (who he's nothing like) and the word "kazik", which is apparently a Polish name, short for Kazimierz; but I think I actually first encountered it in the meaning "chief" – "the kazik of..." (only in Czech). No idea where that comes from; Google keeps throwing names at me._


	7. Chapter 7 - Learning about Narnia

_This time I'm late because exams and essays; and I fell ill._

_Thank you all, again, for the reviews, favourites and follows!_

_Nobody: Good point about the characters' speech; I do forget myself at times and sometimes the fact that English is not my first language may throw me. Although, in this case, if it's only the Pevensies and Methos, it's mostly intentional. (I should check, but I don't feel like doing it now, in a hot library with full nose and head.) Remember (aside from the point about the Pevensies you made yourself), they're all speaking English, which is a language the modern variety of Methos has been speaking for a considerable time now. He would not be thrown back to Middle Ages linguistically, because the variety of English spoken then was in some ways a different language, and it does not seem to be the variety widely spoken in Narnia, for all its occasional archaic characteristics (if it were, the readers would not understand – compare with e.g. Canterbury Tales!). Moreover, before Methos entered Narnia, he had spent what was probably months (considering he made it as far as to be knighted) in a society with the same sort of modern-to-old-timey schizophrenia going on... He's certainly slipping more often than he would care to admit, as you'll hopefully see in this chapter. :-)_

* * *

**Chapter 7**

**In which our hero learns more about Narnia**

The history of Narnia Thunderbolt got for him was a relatively small printed volume. So they knew the printing press around here; yet they still required scribes. That was not so very surprising, though: printing press was quite an old invention (depending on where you looked, of course); typewriters were a much more modern one. The book was illustrated with what were probably woodcuts, hand-tinted. Aside from offering an insight into printing techniques in Narnia, the text itself was also very information-filled. It was apparently meant for children and thus written relatively concisely and to the point, although it still seemed to count on a reader who already knew some things. Methos was still not sure what to make of much of the information, but there were things he was truly intrigued about, and things that explained some strange features of the Narnian world to him.

Aslan really seemed to be some sort of deity, a creator figure (but one that still intervened in events: Narnia was not deistic; it made him vaguely uneasy). The book started with an account of the creation of Narnia (and its world), which seemed strangely reminiscent of Milton's account in _Paradise Lost_, or some myths Methos recalled: apparently, the creatures of Narnia had been born of the earth. Or brought forth from the earth; the book was not quite clear on that particular point. It was quite clear on the point that a few days or weeks after the creation of Narnia, the land had been _very_ fertile and whatever you had planted into it would grow fully in a few hours, and that was where the toffee tree came from, "as Fledge recollected."

Methos did not know who Fledge had been and the idea of growing a toffee tree seemed utterly ridiculous yet fairly intriguing to him. There were possibilities there; although the time for them was conveniently gone, as matters often stood with myths. But where on earth had the toffee come from?!

He got his answer when he turned the page, and what an answer it was.

_As everyone in Narnia should know, Narnia is the land of the Talking Beasts and beings of nature, yet it is also a country ruled by sons of Adam and daughters of Eve; that is as Aslan has decreed it in the very beginning. The Lion's exact reasons for this are as mysterious as His reasons for the creation itself; but the universally agreed view is that thus all creatures of Narnia are equal and none can consider their own kind more worthy than the others. For who could claim himself above his fellow in creation?_

_The lot of sons of Adam and daughters of Eve is surely to be respected, but not to be envied. For they have been taken from their own world, called by Aslan Himself; the first pair of Narnia's rulers: King Frank and Queen Helen, the father and mother of many generations of sons of Adam and daughters of Eve in our world. So bear in mind, even though they are destined to rule, they are also destined to serve, and every lord or lady worthy of that name remembers that._

So that was it. Adam was Adam, Eve was Eve, here as there – the first man and the first woman, the one and only. Humans came from his world. His reality?

_King Frank and Queen Helen, history tells us, were not the only son of Adam and daughter of Eve present at the creation of Narnia. There were also the Lord Diggory and the Lady Polly, friends of Fledge the Winged, father of all winged horses._

If Methos had doubted the truthfulness of the account (and he had had his doubts), he did not any longer. There was no way someone would make up those two names as part of a creation myth. This was too ridiculous not to be real. He did not know how come it was real, but his own experience gave him an idea.

_But with them, an ancient evil came into Narnia as well, the witch Jadis of the north. Jadis is said to have hated Aslan from the first. She ate an Apple of Life in order to gain never-ending life and wage a war against Narnia and its King. But it came with a price: she could never come close to a tree of Life again; and so Lord Diggory, on Aslan's command, planted another Apple, which grew into the Tree of Protection in the Lantern Waste._

Never-ending life, Methos thought bitterly. Yet she was gone now, was she not? Someone must have taken her head. Wait a minute, so was this an origin story for Immortals? Were there Immortals in this world? He fervently hoped not. Had Jadis come from his world? The account suggested it, yet Thunderbolt had said she had not been human. Had she been an Immortal to begin with, after all? He now truly, fully realised, feeling his heart sink, that if his Immortality was revealed, he would probably be considered someone akin to the hated Witch. Oh well. Nothing new under the sun. Or suns, for that matter.

The text went on and on; it gave him an explanation of the strange occurrence of a streetlamp in the woods as well – that, too, dated back to the days of fertility of old. It did not explain how come cast iron could grow; it was simply the magic of Narnia, the power of the Lion. He did not understand how iron could grow, himself, but if the streetlamp – Lantern, as they called it here – was in some inexplicable way at least part organic, it kind of explained why it had not rusted over the thousand or so years since the creation of Narnia. There was a remark in handwriting (probably Thunderbolt's) explaining that fact somewhere in the book – that the Witch had been defeated in the year 1000. Very handy for historians, was it not?

If the local historians had their facts straight, Narnia's was a young world. It was a strange feeling, knowing he was older than the world he found himself in. It was even younger than Amanda. Only Mac's lifetime would fit into this world's history, and Joe's, of course.

The memory sent shivers down his spine; he had been gone for over four days now. Mac must be out of his mind with worry by now. And Joe would do the best he could to calm him down, while silently worrying himself out of his mind as well. And Mag. Gods, what must Mag be thinking? All the re-enactors, in trouble because one of them had mysteriously disappeared. A thousand years of history was nothing compared to four days filled with such agony. And unless something magical happened again...

No use in dwelling on that. He missed them, simple as that, and he regretted their pain; but he was quite sure it was not his fault (something Duncan would no doubt have more trouble accepting if it happened to him). He could only do as much, and right now, the only thing he could do was to find his footing in this world, and then, perhaps, find out what exactly had happened to him, why and how, and how to get back if at all possible. But that was simply not something he could do immediately; it required time. He'd apologise to them if he got back. If he did not... If he did not, he'd remember them for the rest of his life, however long it would be.

* * *

Methos had read long into the night – burning a large portion of the candle in his room – so when he was woken the next morning by a young faun servant who brought him fresh water for washing, he felt rather worse for wear. Immortals still needed their sleep. He had to quickly remind himself to "put his young face on." Both Duncan and Amanda had told him that his age showed the most when he was woken from sleep prematurely. It made sense to him. Those were the moments when he felt it the most – certainly not the same way mortals did, but still. Jumbled thoughts often threw him way back.

"Good morning, sir," the faun said. "Here's some water for you –," – putting down the jug – "– and Master Thunderbolt says you should come to his office for breakfast and instruction."

"So I will," Methos said, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and suppressing the urge to say "Okay." Modern age must have rubbed off on him more than he had thought. "Where exactly is Master Thunderbolt's office, may I ask?" And suppressing the urge to say "Why do I have to be woken at this ungodly hour?" No wonder he felt so sleepy: it was barely daylight outside. No more late night reading sessions for him, it seemed, unless he wanted to put up with this awful morning feeling all the time. He did not particularly want to; but he realised that if he wanted to learn more about this world and not to look too out of place here, he would probably have to read up on it very, very quickly. And cut on his sleep considerably for a while. He hoped they had coffee in Narnia.

"Oh, it is down at the back door," the faun said. "Down the corridor, down the stairs to the ground floor and straight forward; you cannot miss it."

At the back door. Rather a strange location for the office of someone as important as Thunderbolt apparently was; but then, he was a centaur, and probably wanted an easy access in and out the castle, which made a more "central" location less desirable for him.

Methos thanked the faun, trying to gently suggest he should leave; but the boy – he truly was only a boy – lingered.

"Is it true that you killed most of the werewolves?" he asked finally. "Cutting off their heads?"

"Yes?" Methos replied, uncertain where the question was leading.

"Is that the way to kill werewolves?" the boy said. "Is it true that they will heal from any other wound?"

"I don't know," Methos said. "I can only say, in my own experience, cutting off somebody's head is usually a sure way to kill them. Now, why are you asking? And what is your name, for that matter?"

Here it was again. Creatures that heal from just about anything equalling creatures of darkness, creatures to fear. And if he was frank with himself, he could not blame people for thinking so. Someone with his past had no right to claim there was no ground to that fear.

"Arminius," the faun said. "My name is Arminius. And I ask... well, my father was killed by a werewolf. I was wondering..."

"If it could have been prevented from happening?" Methos asked, more softly than he had felt originally.

"Well, yes, I suppose," Arminius said. "Perhaps, if knowing more about werewolves would help."

Methos smiled sadly.

"You cannot change the past," he said. "But you can still do something about the present and the future." He finally remembered to use the water Arminius had brought him and started washing his face.

Arminius accepted his explanation with surprising ease.

"You are right, I guess," he said slowly. "I could not have done anything. I did not have a sword, and even if I had, I would not know what to do with it."

"Now _that_ can be helped, I'm sure," Methos spluttered. "I mean, for the future."

Arminius beamed at him.

"Would you teach me how to use a sword?"

Methos considered it. It was not what he had intended – taking on a student, and such a foreign one at that – but this was a different world...

"If Master Thunderbolt leaves me any free time that I do not spend reading, it's a definite maybe," he said in the end. Arminius laughed.

"Right," he said. "I could not expect more. I have other duties myself. Thank you anyway, sir."

"Oh, call me Peridan," Methos said. He could not afford to be called "sir" as if he were anything more than Arminius – he was just as much of a servant as him, and putting on airs would not help him fit in in any way.

"I will... Peridan."

And with that, Arminius left.

Methos cursed himself inwardly; he had as good as promised him to teach him, and he knew nothing about him. This world kept throwing charity cases at him. Soon, he'd be like the Highlander. Picking up strays. But then, these people had taken _him_ in, knowing practically nothing about him. And _they_ had truly nasty enemies in this world, while he was new to it and probably starting completely afresh. Maybe he should let down his paranoia a bit for their sake.

He washed as much of himself as he dared to in a rush, threw on his new clothes and old boots, slung his sword back into its sheath on his belt and ran off to find Thunderbolt's office.

* * *

Thunderbolt was waiting in his office with breakfast for two on the small side table, one of the few surfaces free of documents, papers and parchments. He was wondering when, or whether, the new boy – man, always a man –, Peridan, would come. It was very early in the morning; Thunderbolt was used to waking early, but he did not know whether Peridan was. He suspected not, and wanted to see what would come of it. There was no use in employing the man if he could not perform under stress.

What came was a freshly washed, relatively cleanly dressed young knight, a bit short for breath. He stopped in the door, bowed slightly and said:

"Good morning, Master Thunderbolt. I am sorry if I am late. I had a conversation with Arminius and that's kept me."

So far, so good.

"Good morning, Peridan. Come in. You are not late. Just in time for breakfast."

Peridan walked to him. Thunderbolt motioned him to his stool and Peridan sat down, eyeing the food on the small table in front of them rather hungrily. Thunderbolt wondered what this young nobleman – for nobleman he was, though an indigent one – made of his sparse diet. But Peridan did not say anything, nor did he start eating. He waited.

Just right, too, because Thunderbolt always said his prayer of thanks to Aslan before he started eating. This time, he also added a plea for peace in Narnia; it was clearly not here yet.

"Amen," Peridan murmured when Thunderbolt finished.

"What did you say?" Thunderbolt asked in surprise.

Peridan looked very taken aback.

"Oh, just... seemed proper," he said, stumbling over his own words.

"In what way?" Thunderbolt asked. "Do you know what does it mean?"

"Something like... 'it is so'. Or 'so be it'," Peridan said.

"I see. Where did you learn this?"

That was the question. Thunderbolt knew the word; some old ones – old centaurs, and old Beasts with good memories, like Badgers – used it as a way to end their prayers. Some centaurs claimed it was a secret name of Aslan, while Badgers unanimously maintained it to simply be a way to end prayers, and to have come from King Frank and Queen Helen's world. In Thunderbolt's own experience so far, the Badgers tended to be right about these things; his own kind sometimes gave too much weight to rather tangentary matters. In this particular case, Badgers, again, seemed to be correct, because it was the way the four monarchs ended their prayers as well, and said it was the way to end prayers. But whatever the word was, no one knew what it really meant.

"I... don't remember. Someone told me," Peridan said uncertainly. "Is it important?"

"Very important," Thunderbolt said firmly. "To me, to every scholar, to anyone who truly cares."

He proceeded to give Peridan a lecture of the word's history, because the young man obviously lacked Narnian education which he would sorely need, and the lecture developed into one on Narnian history, particularly Aslan's manifestations in the same. Peridan listened eagerly and asked poignant questions, and the breakfast went on in a highly satisfying scholarly manner; before Thunderbolt remembered he had wanted to see what Peridan made of it, the food was all gone.

* * *

That had been a close call. Methos cursed himself inwardly, again, this time for not having owned up to his origins in the other world; now he really just could not back off anymore and had to keep up the pretence. It was difficult when his subconscious habits picked up who knows when kept throwing such surprises in his way. Fortunately, Thunderbolt seemed happy enough to provide him with a lecture instead of expecting an explanation from him; keeping up the pretence of a young man eager to learn (and just a smidge bored by the end of it, as was to be expected) was quite easy, because it was one he had gone through before. It was a good deal like a Sunday school, or at least what he imagined Sunday school was probably like. It also turned out to be a highly entertaining and captivating storytelling (even if Thunderbolt's tendency to formulate his sentences conscientiously made it a bit dry at times); by the end of it Methos realised that much of his attention had not been feigned at all. He was still rather scared by the prospect of a deity figure that could show up any time and give him a piece of its mind (the fact that Aslan had apparently killed the immortal Witch did not help). But he could not stop himself from liking the stories.

* * *

_Sooo... You hopefully see now that I operate under the impression that much of Methos' survival skills have to do with sheer luck. Which he then shapes further to his benefit._


	8. Chapter 8 - Other lands

_Corrections to my previous notes: The centaurs' breakfast is actually described in _The Silver Chair_, not in _Prince Caspian_. But the latter is the book where that sort of thing starts to appear (e.g., Caspian receives honey from bears and nuts from a squirrel)._

_Also, that "kazik" word? It's actually "cacique", apparently "kasik" in contemporary Czech usage, says Wikipedia; a word that comes from the Taíno language, and yes, it designates a chief. Or: "In Spain and in Brazil the word is most commonly used in the third sense, meaning "a person in a village or region who exercises excessive influence in political matters"," says Wikipedia. Phew! I knew Alberto Vojtěch Frič was responsible, I just did not believe myself. Should have. So, there, that's where Tazzik's name springs from._

_And I forgot to thank Heliopause for the reference to _Paradise Lost_. I have not read it myself (yet, hopefully)._

_**Nobody**__ and the language: Actually, now I know even Narnians use contractions in the books (I now have all the books in English, yay!), so I will continue to use them without worry. I tend to have the Dwarfs and the animals speaking that way, though, not the centaurs or other more "formal" creatures. So if you catch my centaurs speaking in a suspiciously low-style manner, feel free to correct me._

_This chapter took the longest to figure out. The problem here was timeline problems related to what was going on in Archenland and Calormene. It would take too long to explain it all; suffice to say, I decided to have the Calormenes take some time to notice there was a new order in Narnia now, and moved the beginning of Rabadash's father's reign / Cor's kidnapping into the timeframe of my story (which I wanted to do originally, and it makes more sense this way). I probably will return to the timeline problems at a later date..._

* * *

**Chapter 8**

**In which our hero learns about other lands**

When the breakfast was over (no coffee, but there was some kind of tea-like substance that did a decent job of reviving him), they "went to work." For now, Peridan would work in Thunderbolt's office, and only leave it if someone asked for a scribe. Methos soon realised that the job he had the day before so enthusiastically signed up for was basically the dreaded thankless job of a secretary. Thunderbolt started explaining to him the day-to-day proceedings of the court, showing him his filing system (still somewhat in progress, because he apparently kept re-organising it every now and then to see what worked best) and instructing him on what sorts of documents he could deal with and which were out of bounds for him, for now at least. He was not allowed to deal with any international treaties, not very surprisingly (the documents in question were apparently stored in a different place anyway), and some parts of the inner workings of Narnia, such as mining, were closed to him as well. Those documents were stacked at the very top of the shelves – very probably, Thunderbolt had operatively removed them there the day before, because there were other documents lying about in a state of – simply put, they were a mess. Methos' curiosity was piqued; Peridan, grudgingly but with growing respect, approved.

Thunderbolt also asked him to show his handwriting – something they really should have done yesterday. Methos quickly recalled one of his earlier, more elegant styles (he had, some thirty years before, happily gone on to the rather sloppy modern style of writing – it was so much faster and easier with the modern writing tools, but it would not do here with the quill and the officialdom). Even though the result was not exactly what he had in mind, Thunderbolt was satisfied and asked him, for the day, to re-write a stack of notes into nice documents for the archive and further use.

It turned out to actually be a number of something akin to business agreement proposals that King Edmund had arrived at during his recent visit in the Lantern Waste (it had not been just a hunting trip), and Methos found out that after all, a secretary job at the court of Cair Paravel might be more fun than a comparable job in his own world. In his own world the crown did not discuss dam-building proposals with Beavers and Naiads and Kingfishers, to begin with. Matters needed to be settled here as there, but the matters at hand differed considerably, and he was quite well amused and intrigued for the time being. It gave him more insight into the workings of this country, too. The various kinds of creatures apparently tended to act as compact lobbyist groups each with their own agenda: Beavers wanted to build dams because they preserved their food in standing waters; Naiads argued for free-flowing rivers; Kingfishers liked dams because fish stayed there, but demanded that certain banks suitable for homes were kept undisturbed. But there were individuals who did not quite fall in with others, which made matters even more complicated, but also somewhat more believable in Methos' eyes; complications and individuality were a real world kind of thing. Every decision pertaining to the Crown of Narnia as a whole was covered with King Peter's name, because he was the High King. But King Edmund was the Duke of Lantern Waste and pretty much a sovereign in the negotiations. At first, Methos had to ask Thunderbolt, several times, for the correct wording of certain decisions and phrasings: the centaur had not counted on an uninitiated scribe when he had written the notes and they were therefore sometimes very cryptic. But soon Methos got the hang of it; perhaps sooner than a real uninitiated young scribe would have.

When a bell ringing and Thunderbolt's prompt reminded him it was time to have their midday meal – which, apparently, they would go to have in a larger dining room – he had lost trace of time, and found himself very hungry to his own surprise. His wrists were rather aching from the long writing, but the pain quickly dissipated as soon as he laid down the quill: one of the niftier aspects to his Immortality.

In the dining room, they met a group of red-bearded Dwarfs who worked in the gardens and Methos learned more about food in Narnia. The human food had a touch of English cuisine to it, though with a tastier medieval court twist (Methos had not eaten so much roasted meat in a long time, having rather enjoyed Mediterranean-style vegetable cooking recently). Thunderbolt's preferences leaned heavily, not very surprisingly, towards cereals and plant material, which Methos was quite fine with. The Dwarfs were apparently very keen on mushrooms and eggs, preferably in combination, and as Methos helped himself to another pancake with mushroom sauce, he fondly remembered his days in Lithuania where mushrooms were so dearly loved.

After the meal, he went back to his stack of documents in Thunderbolt's study, but around three o'clock, he was called in to the High King's study, fetched by a Mouse of all people. The Mouse was much taller than any mouse he had ever seen – taller than any rat he had ever seen – but still very small, and being addressed by such a small being, in such a squeaky voice, was quite disconcerting. He packed his writing tools in a bit of a confused haze, somewhat dizzy from staring into the papers, and very nearly poured all the ink on himself.

As he walked the long corridors of the castle with the Beast, though, he realised it was just as self-conscious as him, if not more. Two young people who were not entirely sure what they were doing where they were, the pair of them. It was an amusing thought.

"What is your name?" he asked.

The Mouse looked up at him very shyly.

"Reetseep," it piped.

Right, and is that a he or a she?

"Look, Reetseep, I don't mean to intimidate you."

"You do not mean to... what?" Reetseep asked with a very confused look in its eyes.

"Errr... to scare you? Being all tall and everything, I mean."

Reetseep lit up a bit.

"It's really the way you talk, and write, and read, and all that," it said. "I cannot do any of those things. I've only just learned to talk a while back. Everything is so hard."

Oh dear, it's a child, Methos thought.

"My people want me to become so noble like the others," Reetseep added. "But I don't think I have it in me to be like you people. I can't even remember any of those big words."

It's a page, Methos corrected his surmise.

"Well, you do not have to be _in-ti-mi-da-ted_ by that," he said, repeating the big word in question carefully. "I'm older than you, and I just happen to have a good head for language." He quickly stopped himself from saying "languages", seeing that everyone spoke a single language here, apparently even in foreign countries since no one had expressed surprise at him speaking English as well. Even though Arminius' name was definitely Latin... There were some implications there, but he was not sure he wanted to venture into that territory right now.

"I'd wager you're really good at something, too," he added quickly for Reetseep's sake.

The Mouse did not seem entirely convinced. Methos was not sure he was convinced himself, but he could not be blamed for trying, could he?

They walked in silence for a time after that, until they arrived to the Eastern wing of the castle above the Great Hall and stopped at a very elaborately carved door, with a figure of a lion in the centre. There, Reetseep turned to him again and said simply:

"Thank you."

Then it rapped at the door – it must have been quite an effort for it to produce such a loud thud on the robust wood – and a faun opened the door and Reetseep said:

"Peridan is here, Your Majesties, Mr Tumnus."

The Majesties in question were sitting at a desk in front of the large, arched window that faced the sea – Peter behind the desk, Susan at his right side, with a small embroidery hoop in her lap, Edmund on Peter's left, with a piece of parchment in his hand. Lucy was sitting in a small armchair opposite to Peter, with a large book she did not seem to be reading at the moment laid open in her lap.

Methos entered the room and bowed as deeply as he could without feeling too stupid about it (which was not very deep, but actually just the right amount for the occasion). The faun – Mr Tumnus – closed the door, leaving Reetseep in the corridor. Methos flashed a short panicked look its way: he had only known the Mouse for a short while, but he already felt as if he knew it better than the people he was now left with. Children intimidated by adults were fairly easy to figure, even if they happened to be Mice. Child monarchs and fauns were a mystery.

Well, or teenaged monarchs. Tetrarchs. Whatever.

"You wished for my services?"

"We need to write a letter, Peridan," King Peter said, "and we were told your writing is good; I believe it must be better than mine, so please kindly be the scribe for us."

Well, duh. That's precisely what I'm doing here in the first place, is it not?

"We would not tear you from your work otherwise," Queen Susan smiled, "but I am afraid really neither of us writes so well, and this is a rather important letter."

"Of course," Methos said. "It is no trouble."

He noticed a smaller table in one corner of the room with a parchment already spread out, and he sat there and prepared all his writing utensils, now a bit surer of his own position.

Peter steepled his hands in a thoughtful manner, and after a while he asked:

"Ready?"

"Ready," Methos said. The King nodded, and started dictating:

"Peter, by the gift of Aslan, High King of Narnia, Emperor of the Lone Islands and Lord of Cair Paravel, Susan, Queen of Narnia, Duchess of Southern Highlands, Edmund, King of Narnia, Duke of Lantern Waste, and Lucy, Queen of Narnia, Duchess of Eastern Shores, to Lune, King of Archenland, and Lirn, Queen Consort of Archenland, Greetings."

Methos closely watched his commas and capitals; he had not written a letter like that in a long time – truthfully, the last time he had written a letter of this sort of official importance had been back when English had not even been a word yet. He also briefly wondered why they let him write an international letter of such apparent importance when Thunderbolt most probably would not allow him to.

"Right," Peter said. "I've got that down. Susan, I think it's your turn now."

Susan drew a breath, and then started dictating, in a soft, feeling voice:

"It has come to our awareness that your family has been struck by a most unfortunate turn of events. We would like to express our..." here she paused for a few moments, searching for words, "our grief at the loss of your son Cor, your heir, and on behalf of Narnia wish to offer you any help you may need in searching for him."

Now that was a new development. Was this something Peridan should know? Were they testing him? They seemed too genuinely concerned for that. He had to take their concern and their words at face value. This was that sort of place, and that sort of people.

Edmund's turn:

"We are distressed to hear of the treachery in your midst, and wish to prove that the old friendship between our lands holds true even now."

And Lucy:

"We hope that your son and Corin's brother will be found soon. Regardless of who finds him."

"You cannot put it like that," Edmund said.

"... whether our help is accepted or not?" Lucy offered, uncertainly.

"Given at Cair Paravel this XXVIII day of the month Redthrive in the third year of our reign," Mr Tumnus injected, before anyone could forget the letter was not quite finished yet. Lucy's wording was still not perfect, but it was approved, and the resulting letter thus ended up with a strange mixture of fairly competent, formal wording and a somewhat insecure familiarity. Methos had a feeling that mixture might be exactly what Narnia's relations to this Archenland were like at the moment.

"That will be all the writing from us, Peridan," Peter said, noticing that Methos still waited uncertainly with his pen dipped in the inkwell.

"So we are really not writing to the Tisroc, then?" Susan asked.

"It would be different if it were King Lune," Mr Tumnus said. "But the relations we have with Calormen –"

"The lack of relations, really," Peter said. "We cannot start them like that, Su. It could seem as if you actually revel in his illness."

"But I do mean it," Susan said. "I feel sorry for him, and it's surely courteous to let someone know you feel for them in their suffering."

"Yes, but the Tisroc would not know you mean it. Tol was right; we do not really know how Calormene courtesy works, and we could easily only commit a – what do you call it again?"

"Faux pas," Methos offered.

"That's it," Peter nodded. "Thank you, Peridan. We cannot afford to commit a faux pas with Calormen."

"But what if we commit one by not writing?" Susan argued.

"Your Majesties, if I may..." Methos said.

"Yes?" Peter turned to him again.

"Well, I believe Lord Tol was right. It is not usually done."

Because most monarchs are usually jealous of their power. These four were obviously not most monarchs, which was pleasant to observe, but could also easily get them into trouble.

"All right," Susan said. "But I do not think that can stop me from praying for him, can it?"

"Of course not," Peter said. "Now, this letter to Archenland. I suppose we should use my seal." He started rifling through the objects on his desk, apparently searching for said seal, or...

"Peridan, you do not have wax, do you?" Mr Tumnus asked.

"No," Methos said. "Not yet, that is – I have not needed to seal anything yet."

"Ah, here they are," Peter said, fishing out both seal and wax from beneath some papers. "I really could use some drawers in this desk. Is the ink dry?"

Methos observed that it was not yet dry and asked if by any chance there was a blotting paper among those objects on King Peter's desk. The High King frowned, said: "It will probably be dry before I find it," and did not bother searching.

Susan started asking Peridan how he liked his room, and whether he needed anything aside from clothes ("I am perfectly fine, Your Majesty."), and Lucy asked if Thunderbolt was not too difficult a teacher ("Not at all, Your Majesty."). Then the ink was dry, and Peter lighted a candle and sealed the parchment, while Edmund asked Peridan if he had understood everything in those documents he had been re-writing ("I hope so, Your Majesty.").

They were suddenly disturbed by a repeated sharp rap on the window. A magpie had landed on the windowsill and was knocking on the glass with its beak and hopping impatiently from side to side, before King Edmund finally extracted himself from his armchair and opened the window.

"Your Majesties, I have news from the South!" the bird said immediately. It spoke so quickly it was somewhat difficult to make out its words; its voice sounded both murmuring and croaking at the same time, though there was more emphasis on the croaking in its urgency.

"Then pray tell us!" Peter said. "Was the Prince found?"

"No, the Tisroc! The Tisroc is dead!"

Susan and Lucy both gasped.

"His son Rahash will rule now," the magpie added.

For a while, everything was silent except for the silent scratching of the bird's talons on stone; it was still hopping. It was probably a bit hyperactive.

"Well," Peter said finally, turning to his siblings. "I guess that somewhat simplifies matters."

"How?" Susan asked, surprised.

"It is easier to write to a new Tisroc than a dying one, I suppose," Peter said.

"We should still ask Tol and Thunderbolt and proceed carefully, though," Edmund said. "We certainly do not want to... bind ourselves to Calormen in some way."

"No, that is true," Peter said, and turned back to the magpie. "Thank you for the news. Would you like something to eat or drink? You can ask at the kitchens, I am sure they will find you something."

"Oh, I would rather like a nibble, thank you very much," the magpie said; it bowed (its long black tail darted up into the air at the other end), and then it took off and flew away.

Methos was rather glad to be sent back to his stack of notes and documents after that; he already had much to think about and did not exactly need to listen to the kings and queens arguing over who should be sent with the letter to Anvard. He would be interested in knowing how the diplomatic relations with Calormen would unfold, but he knew when to back off; a day after his arrival was not a good time to start prying.

* * *

That evening, Methos had Thunderbolt show him the way to the library, and when he was left on his own, he ransacked it to find a good map. Archenland lay just south of Narnia. Anvard, apparently the seat of the King of Archenland, was quite near the border. Calormen lay further to the south, separated from Archenland by a desert – not too big a desert, but it was a desert nonetheless. Calormen was at least ten times as big as both Narnia and Archenland together. Probably even bigger. He may have found himself in one of the less important countries – but then, size was not everything in a country. Just look at Switzerland or Japan.

Lone Islands was an archipelago of about three islands quite far away in the Eastern Sea. There were at least three archipelagos nearer Narnia: Seven Isles, Galma and Terebinthia. Methos wondered whether those were part of Narnia or Archenland, or whether they were independent, and how come Peter was the Emperor of Lone Islands. He also wondered how did Narnians travel there, if ever; he could not recall having seen any large ships at the sea.

* * *

_Mushrooms and eggs: I stole this idea from the breakfast Shasta had with the dwarfs. And from Lithuanians._

_Tetrarchs: I realised this thanks to the story "Just A Normal Christmas Eve" by Eavis. Methos, unlike me, speaks Greek (three dialects at the least. ;-), and should realise that "monarch" does not really apply. And it's apparently an accepted term; just not one you run into regularly, because you don't run into tetrarchs regularly._

_I re-named June "Redthrive", in accord with "Greenroof" from Prince Caspian; I decided Greenroof was July, because green leaves are what July is most clearly defined by for me, while June has a lot to do with the colour red in my mind, and not just because it is involved in its Czech name..._

_The magpie messenger is somewhat lifted from cofax's story "Carpetbaggers" (an excellent and slightly disturbing story about the very beginning of the Pevensies' rule that I discovered two chapters into this one; it gave me some ideas, but I do not really want to follow it, in part because it's movie-based). But I really settled on using a talking magpie here after having observed one. Well, I could not understand what it was saying, but it was very clearly speech._


	9. Chapter 9 - Settling in

_Once more,_ _thank you for the reviews and follows and stuff. I am glad to see people wanting to read more of this, because it means I am not writing this just for myself; which, in turn, means I have to try harder, and that's always good. ;-)_

* * *

**Chapter 9**

**In which our hero settles in**

During the first weeks, Methos came to realise – with a strange sort of relief – that there were animal and other knights in Narnia. Thunderbolt himself occasionally signed as "Sir Thunderbolt, Knight of the Noble Order of the Table." Mr Beaver, who was overlooking the building of Narnia's first large ship at the river mouth, with a number of Archen shipbuilders at his command, was, in fact, Lord Beaver, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Lion. For some reason, people still called him just Mr Beaver. Methos found out about his title thanks to a seal on a shipbuilding document he was not allowed to read, only to carry, and started calling him Lord Beaver just to be on the safe side. But the shipmaster only snorted in a most rodent-like manner (whiskers twitching) and said that "Mr Beaver" was quite all right for these occasions. By "these occasions" he probably meant the fact that he was standing on a veritable _pile_ of wood-shavings, with a considerable amount of them entangled in his fur, and Peridan was ink-smudged and dressed in a tunic that he had been wearing for days.

Methos began to suspect there were much more Sirs, Lords and Ladies around than just among the humans. But many of the Beasts and creatures apparently preferred a more natural sort of authority, based on experience rather than titles themselves. (Everyone knew that Mr Beaver was _the_ expert on woodwork, so there was no need to press his importance.) For Methos, this discovery meant several things. There was that odd relief: he was, somehow, glad to know that anyone could be a nobleman; the idea that in a country full of so many varied intelligent beings only some could hold a position of authority was a disturbing one. It smelled of totalitarianism and he would wish that on no country, least of all one where he had to live. So he was glad to see that was not the case with Narnia.

It also meant that he had to be really careful about the way he treated people. Anyone could be a nobleman.

And thirdly, even though he was not fully aware of this final effect, he began to view knighthood in a somewhat different light. The knowledge that the extremely practical and down-to-earth Mr Beaver was a Knight of the Most Noble Order this and that gave said Order greater weight. It was not just one of the titles plastered after the High King's name (he had written those formulaic titles so many times in the past weeks that he had gotten rather fed up with them). There was something more to it, some substance, although he was still not sure what that was.

* * *

"You are an avid reader, Peridan," Thunderbolt remarked about three weeks into Methos' stay in Cair Paravel. "Perhaps, too avid. I hear you are on your twentieth candle already. You are on your tenth book, too." He looked at Peridan sharply and added: "What merit does such a hurried reading have for the reader?"

Methos gulped.

"I simply am a fast reader," he said. "Always have been. Fast reader, fast learner."

It had something to do with his Immortal memory. Immortals tended to have photographic memory: what they once saw they never forgot. It served them well for recognising faces of prospective opponents in The Game, but Methos, for all his will to survive, liked its perks for academic life even more. He always remembered what he had read where, what he had written where, which had also once made it much easier to decide what he wanted the Watchers to know...

"Remembering things is not enough, though," Thunderbolt said, still with sharpness to his tone. "You have to think about them."

Methos shrugged. He could not tell Thunderbolt just how furiously he was thinking about it all, trying to make sense of and acclimatise himself to a world brand new to him. Every time he thought he had got it down, he ran across another fact that threw him. Like the presence of potatoes in this medieval-ish world, the presence of machine-sewn clothes in his (still very limited) wardrobe, or the fact that in this world, stars were considered to be people, quite literally.

"I cannot prove to you that I do, can I?" he said.

"Not now," Thunderbolt admitted. "We have work to do. But we could discuss your reading in the evening."

Maybe he had relieved Thunderbolt of too much of his work. The centaur now had time to ponder such things like Peridan's reading... Did he not have enough of tutoring the kings and queens? He still held lessons with them (though not as frequent as regular school would have been), apparently teaching them such varied subjects as rhetoric, history and mathematics. Did he really need to tutor Peridan as well?

Methos was beginning to think Thunderbolt was a workaholic. He could not recall having seen the centaur just relaxing in the three weeks he had known him. Keeping the archives, being a scribe, tutoring the tetrarchs and advising them regularly. There must have been someone else to do at least one of those jobs, right? Someone before Peridan, that is.

To be fair, he had not really relaxed in those three weeks, either. His own job had quickly expanded, although most of it still had to do with writing. He did help Thunderbolt with the archive, unearthing historical volumes and documents of state and organising them anew, but that was only a fraction of his duties. Many things around the castle had to be recorded. There was a lot of letters being sent to keep trace of what was going on around the country as well as abroad, with birds serving as messengers, and while Thunderbolt and Tol did most of the work there, Peridan was called upon, too, especially if two or more of the tetrarchs needed a scribe at the same time. Tol limited himself to an advisory role and, as far as Methos could tell from his brief encounters, the Lord's writing was not much better than Lucy's, though he was well-read. He had his own scribe.

One of the things that were being closely watched by the four was the still unsuccessful search for the lost prince of Archenland; King Lune had graciously accepted Narnia's offer of help, but it was apparently no good either way. Methos, after he had heard the brief of the thing from castle gossip, did not give the Narnian searchers much chance to succeed. The child had been kidnapped by a treacherous member of King Lune's court (Methos began to understand King Edmund's contribution to the letter, and also his concern) and then had disappeared at sea, on the way south from Archenland. Narnia did not have any ships to speak of at the moment, so there could be no thorough naval search. The chances of the boat with the prince washing on Narnian shores were pretty slim, in Methos' opinion. He did not tell anyone about his misgivings, though, because he did not feel he was in a position to crush their hopes; besides, one never really knew for sure.

The establishment of relations to Calormen had apparently been postponed to some later date. "We only learn about these things from Sallowpad the Raven; there is no way we could learn about Calormen officially, and we do not want to start anything while we do not have the full picture," Thunderbolt told Methos when curiosity took the better of him and he asked. Methos supposed he was only told because he had already been privy to the tetrarchs' discussion of the matter, so there was not much new he could learn now.

Beside the reason Thunderbolt gave him, there was apparently simply too much to do at home.

And Methos had much else to do as well – since Narnia was still rebuilding, new laws, proclamations or rights had to be created as new realities sprang to life, even if they were small things, and he had recorded three such documents in the three weeks and written many letters related to them. Moreover, many of the inhabitants of the castle were apparently illiterate, although the level of literacy seemed somewhat higher than it had been in the Middle Ages. Sometimes, people asked him to read something for them. King Peter often needed help in deciphering letters from his subjects, not all of whom would have pen and ink at hand (some of the letters were also written on birch bark, old leather that was nearly falling apart, and other similar materials). Cooks called him into the kitchens to write down shopping lists and menus for Queen Susan, who was overseeing the whole workings of the castle and did not always have time to come down herself, but still wanted to keep trace of what was going on. (The kitchens were very impressive, apparently among the first rooms of the castle to have been re-fitted, and the head cook – Mrs Beaver – was way scarier in her brisk efficiency combined with talkativeness than a being half Methos' height had a right to be. She was also a bane for any children trying to sneak into the cake pantry, because even amongst all the smells from the cooking, she could always pick up their scent.) Queen Lucy asked him to write down herb-processing methods she had learned ("I would not be able to read my own writing, you know."), and because she needed pictures, too, he trudged after her into the herb garden and did his best at scientific illustration. (He left the colouring to her, though.) King Edmund was writing up some trade agreements and sent him to check with the shipbuilders at the river mouth just how much cloth they needed for the sails. The humans in the village asked him in turn to write some letters to their families in Archenland. All in all, he spent much less time shut off in a study and did much more running of errands, even outdoors, than he had originally expected to.

And he had to squeeze some time to ride and treat Tira on a regular basis and practice his sword skills into all of that. He fulfilled his half-promise to the faun Arminius very soon, simply because it was an excuse to go to the training grounds fairly regularly. (Arminius was clumsy with a sword but otherwise very agile and a promising student.)

By the end of the first week, Methos had been really grateful to find out that Narnians kept Sundays.

* * *

It was at a Sunday dinner, the first week, when the inevitable had happened. Garvan and his people were to leave the following day, so a small feast was held, and Peridan was invited to dine with the tetrarchs and lords. He would miss Garvan; his surprising magnanimity was still a mystery to Methos, but he had soon realised that it was real, not a show, and he began to view the man in much the same way he had treated Mag, though perhaps with more deference with respect to their more obviously unequal status.

"How old are you, Peridan?" Queen Lucy asked him off-hand during the dinner.

"I do not know," he said truthfully.

"You do not know?" she stared at him incredulously. "Everyone should know when their birthday is!"

"Well, I do not," he said. "To the best of my knowledge I am an orphan, a foundling. Which means I do not know my real age." He truly did not; it all became a bit fuzzy after some time, especially with all the changes in calendars, and all those times in his life when all sorts of things had a higher priority than counting the time.

That revelation took them all a bit aback; he saw looks of sympathy in their eyes and wished they'd drop the subject out of that sympathy. He knew they would not.

Queen Susan eyed him thoughtfully for a while and then she said firmly:

"I'd say nineteen. That is a good age. You are adult already, but still young enough to have a right to foolish behaviour at times."

He suspected she was channelling her own wish: she had to behave as an adult, but her position gave her no right to foolish behaviour, at any times. He was actually rather surprised by her assessment, though. He did not know how old he had been at the time of his first death either, but he suspected it had been more than nineteen. Had he pulled off that "young knight" routine so well? Well, maybe he had. He had played young many times before; recently, every time he had needed to start afresh and wanted to study for a new line of work.

"Nineteen sounds good to me," he said. "It does not make me too much older than you; I would hate to..."

"Play adult to us," Edmund said, grinning in a rather unroyal manner.

"Something like that, Your Majesty," Methos agreed. Edmund seemed to have a remarkable knack for seeing into people's motivations, even if he could not know just how close he was this time. It is difficult to play a servant when the mere sight of your masters reminds you of your own superiority. It was easier with Thunderbolt, who invited respect almost automatically and sometimes truly felt as a far greater man than him. Methos still did not know what exactly Thunderbolt's involvement in the uprising against the Witch had been, but the esteem in which others held him and the way the centaur avoided the issue made him think it had been large. (And Methos knew all too well that he himself would have played the "safe" card.) It was even easier to interact with Garvan now that the lord had dropped his own superiority. With the kings and queens, he was not so sure – striking the delicate balance between the friendship they so easily invited and the respect they so clearly required was quite difficult. If he positioned himself as a man not that much older than them, the balance could perhaps come more naturally.

Of course, the subject of his origin was not so easily dropped; he considered himself extremely lucky to have gone so far without being questioned much. He had managed to read up and hear up enough about this world to fabricate a plausible, if somewhat vague, background story for himself: an orphan adopted by a kind though poor nobleman (who had somehow taken on a lot of Joe's characteristics in the telling, including a love of history and an old war wound), accepted as a son but thrown out by the man's family after his death; Peridan had wandered about after that, reduced to a nobody again, but retaining his sense of honour (MacLeod, hear the irony), until he heard about the changes in Narnia and decided to try out his fortune there.

They accepted the story and him along with it, and showed him more sympathy; he could not decide whether it proved a proficiency in lying on his part, a lack of judgement on theirs, or simply an abundance of good will. The story was a rather good one, either way: it explained most of his incongruities, his prowess in arms as well as his bookishness, his nobility as well as his pauperism. Of course, it still maintained that deep pit at his feet, his supposed knowledge of more parts of this world than the ones he currently found himself in. He fervently hoped that they would not try and call on his knowledge.

* * *

He did run into people who did not like him. The humans were mostly all right, especially the lower classes. Lord Tol, whenever he had any dealings with him, still treated him with a sort of lordly disdain. But then Lord Tol was rather aloof of everyone and Methos was not sure how much of it was Tol's true feelings and how much simply an impression he made with his appearance. The man's cleanliness was a mystery to him. In the evenings, Peridan invariably came to his room with clothes sweated through, soil on his boots and ink on his hands. As he ran errands all over the place, he kept glimpsing Tol overseeing the work in the castle and lending a hand here and there, yet the lord was always neat and tidy; he made the impression of maintaining a tiny personal force field around himself that kept everyone and everything at bay, including any sort of dirt. For about ten days of occasional pondering on this mysterious phenomenon, Methos was rather frustrated with his own inability to remain clean. Then he just threw it overboard and accepted the fact that Peridan was clearly not meant to be an image of perfection. He figured he did not really care, as long as he performed satisfactorily in his actual work and did not draw too much attention to himself.

He made a point of being just a guy, as usual, and it did play out in his favour. He was hardworking and studious yet somewhat messy: these were traits he had employed in his recent identities, so they already came quite naturally to him (so much so that he was no longer sure how much of it was an act and how much was him). Luckily for him, Narnia (and, to some extent, Archenland) was apparently the only country where all those strange creatures lived, so it was only to be expected that Peridan would be surprised at some encounters, so his occasional flinching and slips of the tongue were not suspicious. He took great care to talk in a certain way, without throwing too many quotes or allusions into his speech (that one occasion with the prayer had been enough to give him a warning). He did not stand out, did what he was told to do, and most people got used to him quickly; the humans soon accepted him as one of their own kind. However, there were some others who still thought of him as an unwelcome stranger.

The Black Dwarfs in particular kept throwing nasty looks his way whenever he encountered them, especially their leader. Tazzik, Methos thought, was a man not so easily taken in. Sometimes he was too suspicious for his own good, as in Thornbut's case. Thornbut was all right, mostly a victim of circumstances, and doing all his best to make a new life for himself. (Methos, now that he had his own horse, went to the stables often enough to have made a measure of the young dwarf, which was basically the same conclusion he had arrived at originally: morose, but ultimately with a good heart.) His kinsmen were not helping him in any way, which, as far as Methos was concerned, was their bad. But Tazzik did have sharp eyes and a sharp mind used to recognising deceit, something he surely must have put to good use during the Winter, and he did smell something off about Peridan. He kept throwing jabs his way, clearly meant to mock and hurt the newcomer. Some came when the two of them met in the corridors, alone or only with other dwarfs around. Others were uttered in larger company; Methos could see Tazzik revelling in the anticipation of Peridan's public embarrassment. Methos managed to avoid humiliation – two could play that game, and he was good at it – but the dwarf's remarks hit home more often than not, which was disconcerting in ways Tazzik could hardly imagine.

"What's your business here, coming here out of nowhere?!"

Methos still wished he knew.

"Why don't you let go of your sword for once? Nobody's going to steal it from you."

Maybe not; but Methos still did not know what the situation in this world was re: Immortals. The absence of any buzzes in the last month did not necessarily mean there were none. In his own world, he could sometimes go for _decades_ without encountering any of his own kind. That made it all the more crucial to be prepared when suddenly one appeared. And old habits died hard. Good thing that carrying a sword was part of being a knight; he told Tazzik something to that effect.

"You're no more a knight than I am."

Touché. It was all the doublet's fault. Well, it actually boiled down to being his own fault for hooking up with that sort of society. How could he have known it would become so real?

He had countered that particular jab with a fairly truthful background story idea that Peridan had never made it to being knighted. "But I was about to be." Most everyone treated him as if he were, or as someone about to be, even after this admission. Tazzik, of course, did not bother.

But with Tazzik around, an irrational need to be contrary and prove the black dwarf wrong always welled up in Methos. Ever since that exchange, which had occurred very early on in his stay at Cair Paravel, instead of giving Tazzik his money's worth back plus interest, Peridan's behaviour towards him was most courteous (though he still always tried to have the last word). Generally, he behaved in a very conscientious way, way more chivalrous towards others than was his wont, even though he still did not see why he should be particularly kid-gloved towards women. As a direct result of these two warring tendencies, he ended up being nice to _everyone_. It was quite exhausting, and he would have soon admitted defeat, had it not been for the fact that most people were nice to him in return. He got used to that very quickly, and the cutting remarks and dark looks hurt all the more after that.

* * *

"_MacLeod, hear the irony" – For what seems to be the minority of my readers, people who are not familiar with _Highlander_: Duncan MacLeod was taken in and raised by the head of the MacLeod clan, and then disinherited and thrown out when his Immortality was revealed. However, he retained his sense of honour and sense of connection to the family. (And travelled the world afterwards.) Methos' usual reaction for such a situation would more likely be "people just ain't no good" than the "I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod!" Duncan stubbornly sticks to._

_And I promise, this should be the last chapter where "nothing happens" (relatively speaking). Something is boiling in the background... hopefully enough to shake things up a little bit._


	10. Chapter 10 - The scrap

_I'm on a roll, in part because parts of what I'm posting now were already written. That's the funny thing about writing - you have to post it (or put into a book, in other cases) chronologically, but that's not at all the way it is written, and when you stumble on a block somewhere, you can move further on if there's no block there._

_A shorter chapter this time; but there is, hopefully, more going on. There's a weird proportion in there._

* * *

**Chapter 10**

**In which our hero gets into a scrap**

It was in the second week of August – Grainreap, as many called it in Narnia – and Queen Lucy was very busy in the gardens. She often took Peridan with her, because she was impressed with the young scribe's illustrating skills and there was always something to draw or write down. Methos was not particularly happy about the workload backlash this resulted in elsewhere, but he enjoyed the sessions themselves immensely. Lucy was a very agreeable companion and some of the Narnian herbs were new to him, so he was learning with her.

"This is halefoil. It is useful for stomach aches, especially for unicorns and Deer. And Horses, of course. It is too late to pick it now, though; it is best in spring, before it flowers."

It was a yellow-flowering plant, vaguely similar to St John's wort – hardly the same, though, because if Methos remembered correctly, the latter was an antidepressant rather than a digestive. Halefoil was smaller, too.

"This is greencimbel. It's good for teas for cough, but I don't like it very much – it smells horribly when you brew it, you know," she told him about a tall green plant. "It's one of those medicines that are almost worse than the illness!"

Methos agreed with her that medicine could, sometimes, be quite vile. Not that he would know some of the effects from first-hand experience, but Joe had not been very happy about his treatment, either, even if it had saved his life... And he had had his share of smelly medicines around when he had been doing the doctor's job.

"This one's my favourite. Smell it – it's such a lovely scent."

Methos took a sniff and was overwhelmed by the fresh and sweet, slightly spicy, earthy yet otherworldly scent of the small thyme-like flower. It was a sort of scent that reminded you of all good things you've ever known and made you think that the world was not such a bad place after all.

"So good," Lucy said, smelling it as well. "And a very good herb. Good for colds and sore throat and even for healing wounds; it's so wonderful to have an herb like that, because Peter told me not to use my cordial all the time. – The one I got from Father Christmas, you know."

Methos did not know, but he did not ask – not about that, anyway.

"What is it called? It looks a bit like thyme."

"It is a thyme," Lucy said. "But I think it has different leaves. Wider."

"I cannot remember."

"We could look into a book. There are herbals in the library, but I like the real plants better, so I do not use them much... Oh, and it's called windthyme. Even the name is pretty!"

Methos swallowed a remark about the point of writing it all down if there already were other books available; he understood her need to have it all in one place and in terms she would understand.

She picked up her basket of windthyme, he gathered up all his writing and drawing tools, inks, pencils and papers, and they left the hot, sunny garden and headed through the pleasantly cold and surprisingly dark stony archways and corridors to the library.

* * *

The library had quickly become one of Methos' favourite places in the castle, not least of all because it was one of the few places where he truly was in peace and quiet, if only for short periods of time. There were, of course, those evenings spent in discussion with Thunderbolt, which was in theory just two friends sitting (or lying down in Thunderbolt's case) and talking; but Thunderbolt was a ruthless debater, so Methos always had to be on guard, and as much as he enjoyed discussion, he never could be completely _himself_. In the library, he could, for moments, forget that he was playing an act.

This time, though, he had to keep up the act. Not only was he accompanied by Queen Lucy; when they entered the library, they found Mrs Beaver sitting at one of the tables, with an old book in front of her, very much immersed in whatever it was she was reading. She was turning the pages carefully (for the first time, Methos noticed that she had truly opposable thumbs, unlike beavers in his world) and blinking into the pages from a very short distance (still not very good eyesight, Methos realised).

"Hello, Mrs Beaver!" Lucy sided up to her and greeted her cheerfully.

"Oh!" Mrs Beaver almost jumped up. "Hello, Your Majesty!"

Even after the month and a half, Methos was still amused by the way the Beasts treated Lucy as both a sovereign and a very good friend.

"This is so interesting, I did not notice you coming," Mrs Beaver said, tapping the book. "Can you imagine – it is Queen Helen's cookbook! Thunderbolt found it. Well, it is not really _hers_, as such – he says it must be a copy. And that's probably the only reason why he even lets me touch it, the way he goes on. But it is no matter to me. There is a recipe for the gooseberry fools you told me about."

"Is there!" Lucy beamed up, and in that instant, herbs were forgotten. "I had those last when I was six or seven."

Which is eternity for a girl of her age.

"And Thunderbolt found this just in time, too," Mrs Beaver continued, her eyes as bright as Lucy's. "There are still gooseberries left, and I can make you some for your birthday."

"Oh, that would be wonderful!" Lucy said.

There was another piece of news for Methos.

"When is _your_ birthday, Your Majesty?" he asked, with purposeful emphasis on "your", given the conversation they had had about birthdays earlier.

"On the twelfth of August," she said. "When is – oh, I'm sorry."

"No offence taken," Methos said, suppressing laughter at her innocent mistake.

"Did you never celebrate any birthday?" she asked.

"No," he said. "But I can certainly celebrate yours," he added, because the topic of _his_ birthday still made him feel rather squeamish.

"Just don't feel you have to give me gifts, please," she said. "I will get so many anyway – I have three siblings, you know – and you don't have any, it would be unfair."

There were some links missing in that logic, but he knew what she meant, and was grateful to her.

"Maybe I could -," he offered thoughtfully, "- bind those notes we've made for you? Though I probably do not have enough time for that."

"Oh, do not bother," she said. "Not yet, anyway. There are more notes to be made, you know. Maybe for Christmas."

* * *

For that warm, sleepy afternoon, Methos decided to happily forget about any documents of state that might be waiting to be written, and stayed with Queen Lucy and Mrs Beaver in the library, alternating between the cookbook and the herbals. Sometimes, they found parallels between the ingredients in the former and the plants in the latter, which never ceased to amuse Lucy as she tried to imagine how food could be used for healing. Mrs Beaver also happily forgot that she had the whole kitchens to preside over, and sang out a string of delighted exclamations over the recipes in the cookbook, many of which were apparently some lost treasures of old Narnian cuisine.

They did not get to enjoy that blissful abandon for very long, though, because suddenly, Mr Tumnus burst through the doors, and cried out:

"Oh, thank the Lion you are here, Your Majesty! I could not find anyone. The dwarfs are fighting in the courtyard, and no one can stop them, or find out what is going on. And both of them, too!"

"What do you mean, both of them?" Lucy asked, confused.

"The Reds and the Blacks," the faun said, fast and short of breath. "And not even between themselves – I mean, not Reds against Blacks as it sometimes is, you know? Just all of them shouting at one another and scrambling like kittens. Even Smithkin!"

"Oh dear," Mrs Beaver said. "That's serious! What could have gotten into them?"

Lucy trembled a bit, but she said determinedly:

"Let's find out!"

It was very brave of her, Methos thought: she was still just a small child, a little girl that would no doubt stay away from fighting boys in her world.

"Come quick," Mr Tumnus said. "Before someone is seriously hurt. I hope they will listen to their Queen; they just do not even _hear_ anyone."

"You should go with us, too, Peridan," Mrs Beaver turned to Methos. "We will need someone big to – to intervene if anything happens."

Methos nodded. He did not like getting between people arguing and fighting unless absolutely necessary; but given the size and strength of the other three, he was quite certain this was one of those cases.

They rushed through the castle after Tumnus, down to the main courtyard, which was surprisingly empty for an area that was in the heart of the castle. Except for the dozen or so dwarfs squabbling and scraping and shrieking in the centre, and a few small Beasts standing as far away from them as possible in astounded quandary. There were both Black and Red Dwarfs, as Tumnus had said, with – Methos felt his heart stop for just a moment, and then race even faster – Thornbut in the very middle of the scrimmage, lying on the ground under the weight of all the others' fury.

"What is the meaning of this?" Lucy shouted with all the authority of her status, but unfortunately not with accordant strength in her voice. Neither of the dwarfs paid her any attention.

"Stop!" she shouted again, with the same results. The dwarfs kept throwing insults at each other, all at the same time, so it was difficult to make out what either of them was saying. Methos, though, thought he could hear Tazzik shout at Thornbut – who else? – something like "Witchfetcher!"

Methos took several slow breaths to steady himself, and then drew as much air as he could and shouted at the top of his lungs:

"The Queen is speaking!"

His voice broke towards the end under the force of his own outcry, but it did the job. The dwarfs all stopped at once and turned towards them, shocked by the sudden realisation that they were not alone.

Lucy shot him a thankful look and then turned to the dwarfs and said sternly:

"Does it befit free Narnian dwarfs to fight and call one another names like schoolchildren? What has gotten into you?"

The dwarfs all shifted uncomfortably and looked down (except for Thornbut, who slowly rose and dusted himself off uncomfortably, looking down) and neither ventured to explain what was going on. It seemed each of them was waiting for someone else to do the inevitable, or perhaps they all of a sudden stuck together against outside authority, just like the schoolchildren Lucy had likened them to. The Queen stamped her foot impatiently.

"Who started this?" she said, and the whole situation really took on a surreal schoolyard appearance.

"Him!" Tazzik said and pointed at Thornbut.

"You did, you liar!" one of the red dwarfs shouted. "You just always pick on him!"

"I wouldn't if he wasn't such a knucklehead! And you too!" Tazzik shot back.

"Don't start again!" Smithkin snapped at him.

"What, you take their side now?" Tazzik refused to back off. "I heard you supporting my case earlier, you coward!"

"That was different!" Smithkin objected. "Now you're just being irrational!"

Another wall of shouts was raised.

"Stop, stop!" Lucy cried. "Nevermind who started it – what _is_ the matter with you?"

Once more, the dwarfs did not pay attention. Some more blows fell. Thornbut tried to stop Tazzik from hitting Smithkin and, not very surprisingly, became the victim of the black leader's hand himself. For just a moment, Methos glimpsed a look of mindless violence in Tazzik's eyes. He knew that look (he had seen it way too often in his own riding companions, and it had been one of the reasons why he had left them in the end), and he knew it did not bode well for the younger dwarf. He ploughed mercilessly into the riot of small but stone-hard bodies and snatched Tazzik's right arm before he could strike again. Too late did Methos realise that his standing with the Black Dwarf was not much better than Thornbut's: Tazzik did not even look at him and immediately drove his left elbow up into a spot on his body where it _hurt very much_.

Methos cried out in pain, and then shouted something very, _very_ rude that Queen Lucy really should not have heard.

As luck would have it, right then everyone fell silent – of course –, except for Mrs Beaver, who said very quietly and very distinctly:

"My, that was right on target!"

Some of the small Beasts giggled.

Methos later decided that it was worth it after all – though barely – because then, some of the dwarfs chuckled, too, and much of the tension that had been sparking in the courtyard dissipated, and everyone's attention shifted from whatever it was the dwarfs were fighting about to him.

At that moment, though, he did not feel that way. He rather wished he were not there, not there right in front of Queen Lucy who had seen and heard it all and stared at him with a look where utter indignation fought for dominion with uncontrollable merriment. She did have two older brothers, after all...

No, he really did not want to be there right then. He folded down on the ground and hid his face in the palms of his hands, once more wishing for the earth to open and swallow him up (but not permanently, thank you very much). He felt somebody's hand on his shoulder. He looked up again, straight into Thornbut's face. The dwarf was very undoubtedly smiling, probably fighting laughter; but he said very seriously:

"Thank you."

Methos tried to smile back and failed miserably.

"Well," Lucy said finally. "I think that was enough of that, don't you?"

* * *

"_Grainreap" is obvious, is it not? It is, again, rather based on the Czech name for August – "srpen", where "srp" is "sickle". The obvious harvest season of August was one of the main reasons why I decided Greenroof would be July...  
_

"_Cimbel" is apparently "bait" in Spanish. Do not ask me why the plant is called so. It just sounded good. Halefoil is shamelessly stolen from Tolkien's "kingsfoil". Windthyme… just sounded good._

_If I'm to be honest with you – I did enjoy being nasty to Methos. But that's not why…! It just made perfect sense with a dwarf opponent. Ahem._

_(The choreography of the thing may be a bit complicated. I'm not sure.)_

_And you'll have to wait to see what it was all about till the next chapter!_


	11. Chapter 11 - The argument

**Chapter 11**

**In which our hero observes an argument**

King Peter and King Edmund had been out for a ride with Lord Tol and Thunderbolt, to take a look at the nearly finished ship and to discuss an archery competition they were secretly planning for Queen Lucy's birthday. When they returned to the castle, they were met some way before the gate by a very distressed Reetseep. The Mouse ran with all his might towards them, and shouted at the top of his high voice:

"Your Majesties – Your Lordships – you _must_ come to the courtyard – the dwarfs are fighting and Queen Lucy –"

"Lucy!" Edmund cried, and rode fast to the gate; the others followed, but Peter stopped just a moment to pick Reetseep up and set him on the horse's back before himself.

"Why are they fighting?"

"Nobody knows! And I wasn't there when it started."

"All right. You showed presence of mind in running for help," Peter said reassuringly, and observed with satisfaction that the Mouse immediately rose about an inch. It was high time Reetseep realised his own worth! Without his dutiful running of errands and collected (if still rather big-eyed) reactions to changes in plans, half the castle would have probably fallen into chaos in the previous weeks.

Peter soon noticed that the situation could not be so bad after all, because even before he emerged from the gateway after his companions, he could hear the sound of giggles from the courtyard over the sound of their horses' hooves. Trust Lucy to lighten the atmosphere, he thought; but when the scene opened before him, he realised the pretext for the giggles was focused on different parties.

There was a partially broken up huddle of dwarfs in the centre of the courtyard and in their midst, Peridan was heaving himself up from the ground with Thornbut's help, still retaining most of his folded up position even after he rose. Tazzik stood next to them, looking at the man with a triumphant challenge in his face and posture.

"Tazzik, you –" Peridan groaned.

"Yes? What am I?" prodded the dwarf; from his look and behaviour, Peter would swear he must have been behind most of the trouble boiling here, whatever it actually entailed.

Peridan glared at Tazzik with the vengeful ire of an injured party in his eyes. And then, suddenly, something snapped and shifted in his countenance and he straightened up and said, still with a hint of indignation but mostly with dignity:

"You have very good aim."

"What did I say?" Mrs Beaver murmured from beside Lucy, and a new peal of laughter shook the onlookers as well as some of the dwarfs.

"What happened?" Peter asked, deciding this moment when everyone was momentarily distracted was the best time to intervene.

"The dwarfs started fighting again. Peridan tried to stop them and got hit himself… in a rather delicate place," Mr Tumnus explained.

Both Peter and Edmund winced on Peridan's behalf, while Tol unsuccessfully tried to suppress a smirk; only Thunderbolt remained stoic.

"But why were they fighting in the first place?" Edmund asked.

"We still do not know that," Lucy said. "I tried to ask them how it happened, and they only started accusing one another, and what you've heard followed."

Peter shook his head in exasperation. He knew dwarfs could be stubborn, but he had never before seen them being so… thick-headed. Fighting like that, who knows what for, ignoring everyone else. None of the dwarfs had volunteered to enlighten them yet. And then, just as if to restore in him some of the disappearing faith in his Narnians, Smithkin spoke up:

"Your Majesties, I think I could explain." Some of the other dwarfs looked at him darkly, while others seemed relieved that he had taken the necessary duty of telling the Kings and Queen upon himself. "It was all because of school."

"School?" Lord Tol asked incredulously. "You nearly killed yourselves _and _others off because of _school?!_"

"It is not a light matter," Smithkin said. "It's been two years. Some of us have been hoping something would have changed by now."

"Changed?" Peter asked, confused. "Are the teachers bad? You should have told us; we tried to choose good and wise people."

"It's not the teachers as such," Smithkin replied cautiously.

"It's the whole system!" Tazzik exclaimed.

"There's nothing wrong with the system," one of the Red Dwarf gardeners – Dobbin – said. "It works for everyone!"

Apparently, the dwarfs just could not explain anything to the others till they have explained matters to one another – which event did not seem to be coming any time soon.

"But we're not just everyone!" Tazzik said. "We're dwarfs!"

"I don't know what makes dwarfs so different from, say, satyrs," Thornbut said.

"I said he was a knucklehead, didn't I?" Tazzik scoffed.

"In this particular case," Thornbut added.

"Well, he's got a point – in this particular case, we're in the same tight spot with the satyrs," Smithkin agreed.

"Would you, by your leave, explain what exactly this tight spot you are talking about is?" Edmund asked, before the conversation could escalate into yet another fight. "It is apparently something we are unable to infer on our own."

And just when did Edmund start to think and talk like that?, Peter wondered, and felt a surge of pride for his younger brother's competence.

"Well, the thing is, school is not good for our children," Smithkin said.

"But I don't see why," Dobbin said.

"I learnt useful things at school," Thornbut agreed.

"And what use, if you don't mind telling me, is reading and writing to you in the stables?" Tazzik snapped, once more derailing the conversation and directing its focus to other dwarfs instead of their three rulers waiting for explanations. "What use has it _ever_ been to you there?"

"I can read books when I'm finished in the stables, and write my letters to my mom _myself_," Thornbut said with umbrage.

"But you would not have needed to be sent to school for that," Smithkin said peacefully. "Your mom could have taught you herself."

"And _she_ wouldn't have filled your head with all that witchy nonsense," Tazzik added pointedly. "Just like me mom didn't."

"Just like she did not fill your head with any manners, either," Dobbin said. "You would not get away with that sort of behaviour at school!"

"Um," Thornbut did, apparently not agreeing with Dobbin on this particular point. Peter could very well imagine Thornbut had been picked on at school, just like he was picked on now. Dobbin did not pay him any heed, though, and kept his argument with Tazzik.

"There is a good reason why our children are sent to school with everyone else! Otherwise they would end up thinking the world begins and ends with dwarfs. And you're apparently thinking that, too! So your mom didn't make such a great teacher after all."

"Oho!" Tazik said. "Who's got bad manners now? And don't even try to pretend the whole thing was started on good intentions. We both know it wasn't!"

"But it's built on good intentions now! So what if it was misused originally; it isn't now. You're just trying to make dwarfs more special."

During the whole conversation, Peridan had still been standing among the dwarfs; towering above them, but completely ignored. Now, he seemed to have caught onto an underlying idea that the dwarfs never mentioned directly.

"Is _that_ what this is all about? Some sort of fear of... indoctrination?" he asked.

Once more, he drew everyone's attention to himself. Most people were looking at him in confusion, because they did not understand what he had said. Peter was not entirely sure he had got the correct meaning, either, but his understanding was certainly better than Tazzik's.

"What are you talking about?" the dwarf asked Peridan suspiciously. "Nobody's making doctors of my children, that much is sure, and nobody's ever tried. Nor is going to try, either!"

"Peridan is, I believe, suggesting that you fear school could, once more, do what Jadis used it for: to break up the traditional upbringing and craftsmanship of dwarfs and their family ties," Thunderbolt said. It was the first thing he said during the whole commotion, and as was often the case with him, when he spoke, he cut straight to the heart of the matter.

"That sounds about right," said both Smithkin and Peridan at once. The two of them immediately exchanged startled and slightly amused glances. Even though each of them had agreed with a different aspect of Thunderbolt's speech (Peridan agreeing that that was what he had meant, Smithkin agreeing that that was what it was all about), the centaur had summed up both of their thoughts very succinctly.

"Aslan be praised: we know the problem at last," Peter said. "Rest assured, we had no idea that the Witch had done that. Nobody had told us before."

* * *

And nobody had bothered to mention that important fact to the new rulers? In two years? Methos wondered. There were possibly some serious trust issues there. And somebody – I'm looking at you, Thunderbolt – had failed to realise just how serious a problem that is, continuing a practice set up by a tyrant.

Of course, it was exactly the sort of issue Thunderbolt would be likely to overlook. Thunderbolt was all about education. He would think that education with good intent was all right. And in normal circumstances, Methos would agree; but the matter of "we don't need no thought control, no dark sarcasm in the classroom" had left scars and had led to some unrest in the most recent times he had lived through. Not all aspects of organised education were good for everyone. And it was not even always the teachers' fault. Sometimes, it was simply the fact that there was not enough room to give the necessary attention to everyone. And some teachers could harm even with good intent.

In this case, though, the issue seemed to run deeper than individual child-teacher relations. It seemed to be more of a homeschooling-related argument. Given the fact that the dwarfs' society was, as he far as he had managed to learn in the past weeks, highly skill-focused and working on a sort of master-apprentice basis (very often centred in families; most of Smithkin's and Dobbin's apprentices were their children or nieces and nephews), Methos could understand why they would see the need for homeschooling. The complicated part was, however, that not even the dwarfs themselves seemed to agree on the importance of the issue. Dobbin, who seemed to be the most adamant proponent of the status quo, was just as reliant upon the work of his apprentices in the gardens as Smithkin was in his forge shop. Tazzik, whose trade – at least Methos thought so, because the dwarf would never let him get close enough to learn more of his work – did not require such a structure, was on the other hand very much opposed to the school system.

Well, a part of Tazzik's attitude certainly had to do with the fact that he associated the system with the Witch, and the poor former servant of the aforementioned in the ranks of his own people. But that attitude could not completely discredit the argument he was upholding; Smithkin was much more judicious in his reasoning for the same.

"I do not think this is a good place to deal with this further," King Peter said, tearing Methos out of his thoughts. "You have fought here; others were hurt here."

Read: me, Methos thought sarcastically. He just made a good incidental argument for the king. But if it meant this was going to be discussed with more perspective and authority, somewhere else where he would not have to stand right in front of Queen Lucy (his own expletive was still ringing in his ears) and be the object of Mrs Beaver's scrutiny, he really could not raise any objections against it.

"Besides, our sister Susan should learn of this matter as well, and be present to our further discussion," Peter continued. "We shall meet after tea in the Great Hall. In the meantime, I entreat you, do not start fighting again. Stay apart if it helps you keep your heads cool," he addressed the dwarfs. "We _will_ discuss this further, and find a solution. There is no need to, as Lord Tol has said, nearly kill yourselves off over it."

The company started slowly disbanding. Dobbin with his side from the fight rushed off to the west wing dining room, most likely to have their own tea. It was very wise of him to clear the scene; Tazzik was not one to do it himself, and further conflict, even if it were just an exchange of quips, would no doubt aggravate the High King and make the proposed finding of a solution more difficult. Thornbut tarried behind, most likely with the intention of inquiring after Peridan's health. It was rather ridiculous, really; Thornbut was probably much worse hurt than him. Not even accounting for Methos' healing; the bruises and scratches on the dwarf's face did not look good. Methos indicated to him, hopefully in no ambiguous way, to skedaddle after Dobbin. Thornbut, thankfully, showed wisdom similar to the red dwarf and did just that.

King Edmund could not be rid off of that easily, though.

"Are you all right, Peridan?" he asked.

Methos nodded mutely. He did not know what he could possibly say. Edmund was not the prying sort, however, and that nod was clearly good enough for him.

"Go and have something to eat," he told him. "I think we will need you to keep minutes of the upcoming meeting; it is guaranteed to be a busy one."

"Yes, Your Majesty,'" Methos said, bowed slightly and walked away in Dobbin's and Thornbut's footsteps.

* * *

Peter saw with relief that fighting was averted for the time being. The dwarfs divided into several groups and did not quarrel any more, although it was obvious that the argument was only postponed. The other people in the courtyard followed suit, going after their own work or meals (with the exception of Mrs Beaver who went with his own group part of the way, claiming she had left something in the library). The promise of a set time and place where they could once more observe the happenings no doubt helped some of the onlookers vacate the scene for now. Others were simply glad to leave the matter in someone else's, more qualified hands.

Well, "qualified" was a relative term. He was wondering how four children of school age could possibly solve such a conundrum for others. But then, Aslan had trusted them with that power; they would have to trust Aslan that they would find a solution eventually.

He also realised that Peridan had not once looked at Lucy during the whole ordeal, which surprised him, considering the time the two of them had been spending together recently. They had seemed to be good friends, as good as Peridan would allow in his consciousness of his lower status, anyway. He had been much more open with her than most humans in a similar position were, actually (Edmund was onto something when he had said that Peridan would hate to play adult to them); it made his behaviour now very obviously strange.

"Did you argue with Peridan? Were you mad at him, or something?" he asked his sister as they walked to his study to their own tea. "He seemed to avoid you."

"Oh, not at all," Lucy said. "He was quite amazing, really. The way he helped Thornbut when Tazzik attacked him, only to be hit himself, poor man."

"He was very rude, too," Mrs Beaver added serenely.

"Well," Peter conceded, "I do not rightly know what _I_ would say in such a situation!"

"Oh, I am quite sure you would not say _that_," Lucy giggled. Peter winced at the thought of his little sister being present when such sort of strong language had been thrown about, and for a short moment, he was suddenly quite mad at Peridan himself.

"_What_ did he say?" Edmund inquired.

"I am not telling," Lucy said, cheerfully but firmly. "_Someone_ in this family should remain innocent!"

* * *

_And I'm not telling either, because a) I'm not very rude myself, b) it's more fun this way anyway._

_I hope borrowing the words of a song for a cultural / social reference is all right by the rules... When it comes to the injustices of an educational system, "The Wall" is so obvious a reference that I think it would immediately spring to Methos' mind as well. (I'm only familiar with the song, by the way.)_


End file.
